


The Playground

by mjp



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-06 22:10:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 162,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1874307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mjp/pseuds/mjp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>At that moment I knew why people tagged graffiti on the walls of neat little houses and scratched the paint on new cars and beat up well-tended children. It was only natural to want to destroy something you could never have —</i> Janet Fitch</p><p> </p><p>(tiny note: there is PART I & PART II, so please move to chapter 18 at first)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> I had to give this idea a try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (additional note: it's the end of april year 2017 and i'm re-reading this first chapter with pain and tears IF YOU MAKE IT THROUGH THE INITIAL ABSOLUTE CRINGE WAVE I APPLAUD YOU it gets better with further chapters, plz don't hate me for my 2014 writing)

 

 

I rolled down the window in the backseat of our rented car and I slowly moved my head forward. My eyes wide open despite the cold, morning wind blowing into my face. I also parted my lips a little as I needed to feel the breeze filling my lungs and the freshness of the dawn pushing away the last bits of sleep. I didn't like being half-conscious, as I didn't like anything that came in the color of grey. Life for me had to be either black or white. I didn't tolerate in-betweens.

 

“Did you sleep well?”

 

My step father, Juergen, turned his head for few seconds to shot me a quick smile, but I didn't respond. I might be awake, but that doesn't necessarily mean I want to give into the morning pleasantries of talking about nothing. Silence was more fulfilling.

 

Soon after, I heard my mother's yawn and her hands went up, as she stretched her back. It was a dreadfully, long night and I couldn't wait to be out of the car, but we still had about twenty minutes more until we reached our destination being a small village approximately a hundred kilometers away southwest of Copenhagen.

 

I haven't been there in years, but as I focused my eyes on the quickly passing views, I realized not a lot have changed. The trees were still ridiculously green, the woods still seemed mysterious and the smell of the countryside was just as I remembered it from childhood.

 

Was I happy to be coming back to the place I thought I knew well?

 

No, but I didn't have much of choice, so I decided I might as well do my best to enjoy every minute of these holidays.

 

When the car finally stopped and both of my parents mumbled something I didn't pay attention to, I pushed the door open and got out. I stretched for long minutes before I moved to take my luggage and some of my mom's stuff as well, even though I didn't understand why she took so much crap. I planned to do just fine with plain, cotton T's and jeans. Simplicity might not always be the key, but I couldn't be bothered.

 

The house was entirely Scandinavian style. Scandinavian village style, mind that. Far from Copenhagen minimalistic coldness and even further from Madrid's warm and vividness, but again I didn't care.

 

I waited by the front door until Juergen and my mom caught up and only then I entered the house. It was easier to face Nana knowing she will soon turn her welcoming arms onto the pair. I wasn't a big fan of all the hugging, even if I considered Grandma to be my favorite member of the family, despite her not being my real Grandma. She was Juergen's mother.

 

“Here's the Antichrist of the family,” she smiled widely and brought me closer to a rib-breaking hug. Then, as she was still holding tightly my arms, she stepped back, tilted her head a little and squinted her eyes, nodding in an disbelieving gesture. “Fernando, oh boy, you are an angel.”

 

“Far from that, mother, far from that,” Juergen voice seeped somewhere behind my ear, but I ignored the comment.

 

I guess I adored Grandma this much, because first, she spoke decent English, as a majority of Danish people and I didn't have to force my tongue to pretend I knew Danish and second, she had an undeniable gift of loving me despite my twisted ways. That doesn't happen a lot. Frankly, beside my mother, who I guess loves me only because the nature programmed her to, Grandma is the only person, who does truly tolerate me. I still haven't figured out why.

 

So I went upstairs to leave my bags and as I looked around the room I was again faced with the familiar feeling of things not changing even slightly. There was this one picture that was standing there for years. And books all placed in the same order. The old furniture. Walls covered with white paint.

 

I smiled.

 

“Fernando!”

 

My mom was yelling from downstairs, so not having much to do now, I decided to join them.

 

“Come, grandma prepared breakfast, just as you like it,” I heard her saying when I was going down the stairs.

 

I sat down by the table and I started putting food on my plate. A little bit of everything.

 

“So, Fernando, tell me,” she started, “how are you doing, how is school, how is swimming, how is everything!”

 

And before I managed to answer, as I first wanted to swallow the portion I already had in my mouth, my step-father replied.

 

“I would consider this school year Fernando's big success. Imagine mother, that they didn't expel him for drugs or bullying, as they did in two previous schools. This year Fernando came up with an excellent idea to seduce his swimming team couch. Now, he is not only expelled from school, but he is banned from joining all best teams in Madrid, since the sexual relationships or any sort of relationships with the supervisors are strictly forbidden.”

 

I didn't expect the show to start so early. I thought Juergen will at least like to have his morning coffee, before he starts with bollocks, but I guess I was wrong.

 

Grandma seemed worried. I kept on chewing. My mother was looking around. She would probably like to add a bit of Scotch to her tea now.

 

“To clarify,” I said finally, “I didn't seduce him. He seduced me.”

 

Juergen let out a rich laughter and some people could probably be fooled, thinking he was really amused by what I just said, but once he finished laughing his face donned an irritated expression. He reached for his coffee.

 

“I hope you'll figure out a way how to graduate from high-school, because I run out of the ideas.”

 

“Juergen, stop it,” grandma said, “Fernando is going to do just fine.”

 

And then as she stood up, she came closer, leaned in and kissed my cheek. Then just casually wandered to the kitchen, as the topic brought up by Juergen was something pretty casual. Well, for me it was. I just didn't expect grandma to be this casual too.

 

I kept on eating, but once I gazed up to face my step-father, he was now furious. I knew he wasn't going to blow up, he was more into ironic remarks at this point, but I could clearly notice that the reason for his anger wasn't only my lack of remorse, but also the fact that all the women in the family adored me to the point they rarely saw any of my flaws. Or even if they did, they brushed it off. In their eyes I was an innocent, fragile angel and for Juergen I had an devilish soul trapped in the human body. I have to say I truly enjoyed all the godly comparisons.

 

“Nicklas was asking for you, Fernando,” grandma said on her way back to the table. She was now carrying another plate with food. “I told him to come pick you up around four in the afternoon. There is some sort of festival or something like that in the village.”

 

I nodded my head. I wasn't really interested in meeting other kids, but Nicklas was actually a fun person to be around. I think he was the only boy in the entire village accepting my homosexuality and what's more: he wasn't afraid of me poisoning him with the sinful spirit. I told him I like boys when we were both thirteen, so I guess up until now he had a lot of time to come to terms with that information. He was also that kid, I realized there is always one of that kind, who's parents got bored of living in a city and decided to change the surroundings for a little– I think that also was a reason for his pretty laid-back attitude.

 

“Sounds good,” I responded with a vague smile. Then as I finished eating I took the plates and put them down in the sink.

 

For a moment I stood there, by the kitchen counter, observing how now the trio found themselves busy talking about everything else not considering my person and I gladly took it as a chance to escape the further discussion and disappear in my room.

 

I lied down on the mattress, staring up on the ceiling. My legs crossed, my arms high above my head.

 

I didn't seduce him. He seduced me.

 

He pushed me against the lockers first. He kissed me first. He turned me around. If not the fact I extremely enjoyed his every, single move and I pleadingly asked for more, I could accuse him of rape. At first, I even wanted to. But then as I gave it a second thought, I didn't really like the school and I didn't really saw myself in that swimming team, so I took it as a chance to escape the dull surroundings. I clearly remember Juergen's face the minute the headmaster announced him the news. Was he angry? Probably yes. Another, horrendously big tuition fee went practically to waste. Was he disappointed? I guess he stopped being disappointed, when I reached the age of fifteen. Was he ashamed? Well, I wasn't his biological son, but I had to carry his surname, so I believe through the years he was famous not so much for his absolutely great surgical skills, but for the fact that I was the devil and it seemed nothing could cure me.

 

I smiled.

 

I didn't really understand why people pick all the Biblical creatures to call me with, but I think I should consider it rather a compliment.

 

Staring at the cracks in the ceiling lulled me to sleep and I only woke up few times more to either half-consciously check my phone or cover myself with the bed sheets.

 

“Fernando, hey, wake up,” I heard my mom's voice. I felt her fingers gently brushing through my hair. I used to love it, when I was a kid. “It's almost four. You've been sleeping the whole day.”

 

I turned on the side and covered my head with the sheets, so that I couldn't hear any noises. The sleep was so blissful. So quiet.

 

“Don't forget about Nicklas coming over to pick you up.”

 

//

 

 

What was supposed to be a festival, as my grandma previously referred to it, turned out to be a huge bonfire surrounded with wooden benches and a small tent on a side with all the terrible food and cold, bitter beer. Normally I wouldn't be satisfied, but Nicklas came prepared – with pot – so I could bare the intrusive, judgmental glances and cold, dry wind. I quickly realized that for Nicklas being friends with me meant he was sentenced for the social ostracism. When we came only few of his friends acknowledged his presence and those who did only nodded their heads, as if stating that if Bendtner shows up at a party with me, he already made a clear choice of who he wants to hang out with. It reminded me of junior high social rules and norms and frankly speaking, did make me laugh.

 

“You can tell your friends that homosexuality is not contagious,” I smiled with a corner of my lips and then I brought the bottle of beer closer to my mouth and took a fairly, big sip.

 

“I tried,” he answered back, shrugging his shoulders in disappointment. “It's only hundred kilometers away from Copenhagen, but I feel like I would be in a whole, different country. Don't mind these people. If anything, they're more scared, than hateful.”

 

“Why do you care?”

 

“Actually? I don't know,” he hesitated. “I guess it's this protective feeling. People from the city always negatively judge people from the village. And vice versa. I, on the other hand, try to bring a compromise.”

 

I took another sip. “It must be for the people like you that the human race still goes on.”

 

He smiled. “More or less.”

 

I looked around and I noticed people parted in groups of four or five. There were a lot of teenagers; kids just like us two. Nicklas said that some of them came from the villages placed next to ours and that the weekly bonfire it's something we, city people, call the drunken night out. They were all laughing, loudly talking, drinking beers and smoking. Some cigarettes, some weed. Some were sitting on the wooden benches. Some were eating and grilling. Some were talking about us. Some were staring.

 

The boy from the bench across. He was staring at us. All the time. And when I gazed up to see him, he quickly turned his head away. His eyes running away from meeting mine. I couldn't entirely see him, because it was dark and the burning, red flames were up so high his face features were quite distorted. There were four more people around him though, but he was the only one who wasn't speaking. Who wasn't laughing. Who wasn't drinking. He kept staring. Then he looked away.

 

“Nicklas,” I started, still looking at the boy.

 

“Mhm,” he said, chewing his sausage.

 

“Who is that guy over there?”

 

I nodded my head gently in the stranger's direction, trying not to sound as if I already started scheming. I didn't. It was just my curiosity.

 

“Who– oh, this one,” he smiled underneath his nose and my ability to read people said that it was the kind of smile that hid something interesting beneath. “That is Daniel. Then, the girl next to him is his sister and the bulky guy is his brother. I don't really recognize the other person, though. It must be someone from their neighborhood I guess, but it's unlikely. They live in our village, but at the very end. In theory, it's still the same territory, but in reality no one ever goes there. It's far and quite abandoned. Only the Agger's house.”

 

Now it was me staring at him, wishing the flames of the bonfire would go down a little, so I could see the boy fully. The entire group didn't look much different than the rest of the kids. Well, the brother looked older and the sister must have been a bit tipsy now, cause she was bursting out with laughter every, ten seconds.

 

“Fernando, come on, stop staring at him,” he said with a smile, but I sensed fear somewhere between his words.

 

“He seems weird,” I replied, still looking.

 

“Because he is weird. He doesn't speak.”

 

“Yeah, I've noticed,” I said, side-glancing now at Nicklas, then at the boy.

 

“No, he doesn't speak at all.” Now my full attention was on Bendtner.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“He is mute.”

 

When I still didn't answer to that information, Nicklas added, “Speech-impaired.”

 

“I know what it means,” it got me off-guard. “But he seems pretty heal– is he deaf as well?”

 

“No, he isn't. I remember him as a kid, because we moved here when I was seven. He used to speak though, when he was small. I think he was nine years old when he stopped speaking.”

 

“Just like that?”

 

“No one really knows what happened. Few people told me that his mother was always complaining about his health and truth is, as well as I remember, he was rarely playing with us. Apparently all the time he wasn't out, he was home being sick and his sudden loss of voice was caused by the severe throat problems, but I don't think it's entirely true.”

 

“Why?”

 

“There is something wrong with this family and it is the kind of wrongness that you can easily sense, because it disturbs you.”

 

Bendtner words were echoing in my head, as I kept shamelessly staring at the boy. Serving him my predator stare. I tried to analyze everything Nicklas said and derive some sort of theory, sense, pieces of puzzles I could later on link.

 

“Do you have any ideas on what could have happened?”

 

“No, nothing. I know that the loss of voice can be a result of some sort of traumatic event, but those villages are peaceful and delicate and if anything bad happens then it's either a fox killing some chickens or a small robbery, that didn't happen in years. I don't remember anything big ever happening. Nothing including Daniel, at least.”

I nodded my head and when I turned it to again face the boy, I noticed he was gone. The space he occupied was now empty and the mini crowd he was surrounded with was gone as well. I quickly looked around, feeling all disappointed I didn't manage to catch him while he was going, but then I saw him standing a bit further away with his brother and sister. Damn, he was tall. They were all tall, to be honest. But Daniel was much slender and athletic than his bulky brother.

 

“Daniel used to swim,” he suddenly said, “if it interests you.”

 

In fact, it did. I smiled.

 

“He no longer does?”

 

“No, he dropped out about a year ago. I know, cause I go to school with him. He is our age.”

 

“Was he any good?”

 

I imagined that body in the cold, pool water. His long, strong arms guiding him forward. I smiled again.

 

“Any good? He was the best. They wanted to send him to Copenhagen, so there he could train professionally, maybe even train for the Olympics, but you know, he doesn't speak. That complicated and still does complicate a lot of things.”

 

“He doesn't use the sign language?”

 

“No.”

 

“How does he manage at school?”

 

“Normally. He writes well. He understands everything. He gets pretty good grades. He just doesn't speak.”

 

I couldn't believe in what Nicklas was saying. I could, but at the same time I couldn't. The boy had that weird aura around him, true, but he seemed pretty normal apart from that.

 

“How do you know all those things?”

 

Nicklas smiled widely. “We all know everything about everyone. You'll soon discover it on your own.”

 

Well, maybe it is not going to be so boring here after all.

 

“So, what is the next attraction?”

 

“The Sunday mass,” he said and before he managed to go on, I cut in.

 

“Why? Is the priest hot?”

 

I had the swimming coach. Why not the priest?

 

“God, Fernando,” he laughed quickly, “I hope no one heard you saying that.”

 

“Whatever,” I waved my hand, “I'll be probably going to hell anyway.”

 

 


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Give it a chance.

When I woke up the next day, probably a bit too late to still call it morning, I felt the familiar, after-weed dryness in my mouth. I let out a loud yawn, while stretching on the bed and then I rolled on the other side, trying to force myself back to sleep. I didn't have anything planned, therefore I could sleep the whole day. And the next day. And the day after the next day. Maybe even I could sleep through those whole, two months and just wake up on the day of the departure.

 

But as much as I tried, I was now fully awake. Lying underneath the warm bed-sheets, staring at a wall in front. Thinking.

 

The bonfire finished around twelve and afterwards Nicklas walked me back home. I think a reason for that was partly, because he was scared someone may attack me, which seemed highly unlikely. These guys despised me, but weren't aggressive or provoked enough to go right after me the first day I came around. The other reason being he simply wanted to smoke a bit more of pot and he knew that first, I would never pass on such an opportunity, second the walk back to his home from nana's was long enough for him to sober from the high and in a way I admired his entire plan. I don't think I was ever that careful with smoking, but then again, was I ever careful with anything? Never or rarely were only two, correct answers.

 

As I've done my share of rolling from side to side and stretching and yawning and thinking all the meaningless crap, I got up from bed. Put a t-shirt on and went downstairs. When I saw only grandma in the kitchen, I let out a thankful murmur.

 

“Oh, you're finally up,” she said, side-glancing, as her full focus was now on cutting the vegetables.

 

I opened the fridge and took out a yogurt and orange juice. I wasn't sticking well to my 'athlete' diet, but on the other hand, I wasn't an athlete anymore. Technically speaking.

 

“I'm not really a morning person,” I replied after some time and softened the few-words sentence with a cheerful smile. I sat down on the kitchen counter, with my feet freely above the floor. “Is it for dinner?”

 

“Yes, it's for the soup.”

 

I nodded my head incapable of coming up with a better response. I didn't know much about cooking and frankly speaking, I wasn't keen on learning.

 

“How was the festival yesterday?”

 

“You mean the bonfire?”

 

“Whatever, the party,” she waved her free hand quite ignorantly, but soon she smiled. I realized her smile was much different than mine. It was gentle and encouraging, whereas mine from the minutes before was just fake. Usually things like that didn't even slightly bother me, but this woman didn't have any solid reasons to be this nice and loving towards me, yet she was. And not only I felt obliged, but a part of me was a bit touched as well.

 

“It was pretty good,” I said and then I stuffed my mouth with a large portion of yogurt. On purpose, of course. As I wasn't a morning person, then the morning talks were not my thing either.

 

“Did you behave well?”

 

“Of course,” I shot her a wide grin, “as I always do.”

 

She seemed to be a little amused with my sarcasm and I was very grateful for that. Too bad Juergen didn't get that gene.

 

“Were other kids nice to you?”

 

“Well,” I made the thinking face, “they didn't throw me onto the flames, so I guess we can consider it a good start.”

 

She laughed. “Give them a chance. Village kids aren't so much different from the city kids, that's first. Second, never underestimate their intelligence nor education. Third, being openly homosexual here is still a taboo. I have a feeling most of these kids, deep down, have nothing against you as a person, but your presence makes them uncomfortable, because they have to choose between being true to themselves and then maybe accepting you and your sexuality. And then on the other hand, staying faithful to what the society: the parents, the grandparents, the church wants them to believe. It is a difficult situation for you, I know, but I would bet a lot, that it is even more difficult for them.”

 

It took me a while to realize I sat there, on the kitchen counter, with a spoon in my mouth and my eyes fixed on grandma in awe. What she said was slowly making sense in my head and it is not that I didn't think about it before, because a part of me suspected such options, yet I preferred to stay indifferent towards others struggles and focus on how it affected me, and since it affected me negatively, I already wrote the kids off. Nana's words brought a bit more perspective to my close-minded thinking. Well, normally I was all into what makes people happy, but I was also a big, egoistic dick and if what made people happy made me unhappy, then one of us had to resign. And it is easy to assume, it was never me, who backed off.

 

I saw grandma smiling underneath her nose and I knew what she was thinking. This battle she won and I let her have a little victory celebration.

 

“Where is Juergen and mom?”

 

“They went grocery shopping and then as they brought the groceries here, they went for a walk.”

 

I looked at the clock hanging on the wall. It was close to three in the afternoon. I hoped they won't be coming back soon.

 

I put the orange juice back to the fridge and I washed the spoon. I considered it to be a great contribution to domestic help.

 

Now shower, then calling Nicklas, then smoking weed and hopefully another day will pass fast.

 

On my way back I suddenly turned. “Grandma,” I said, waiting for her to turn at least her head, but she didn't. “What do you know about Daniel Agger?”

 

And at first I thought she didn't hear me asking, so I was willing to ask again, but then she slowly turned her head and shot me a long, strong, serious look. As I kept staring back, unfazed and now even more curious than yesterday or minutes before, she finally turned her whole body. Now leaning with her back against the counter.

 

“Why do you ask?”

 

“Is it true he doesn't speak?”

 

She hesitated before answering. “It is true.”

 

“Do you know why?”

 

“No.”

 

And somehow, my first reaction would be to tell her to stop lying, but then as I kept analyzing her facial expression I realized she was telling the truth. “Did something happen to him?”

 

“I don't know.”

 

“How is it possible no one kno–“

 

“You better stay away from him, Fernando.”

 

“What? Why?”

 

She turned again and the only thing I could see now was her back. And her arm fiercely going up and down, as she was back with chopping the vegetables.

 

“Because you're dangerous.”

 

I wanted to burst out with a loud laugh. Not ironic one, the real one. I'm dangerous? In which way exactly?

 

“I don't understand.”

 

“Well, I know you do. You perfectly know what I'm talking about. Just cross him out of your playground.”

 

“But why?”

 

She put the knife down, but she didn't turn. “He doesn't deserve to be played with. He is a good boy.”

 

The thing was, I highly doubted it. And what intrigued me most was why everyone seemed to pity him this much. Of course, being speech-impaired wasn't something you envy, desire or would wish upon someone else, but it looked like the fact the boy didn't speak was just an excuse, a cover up for something else. And I desperately wanted to know what it was.

 

I remembered him staring shamelessly and maybe other kids did as well, but when I looked up to face them, they quickly turned their heads– ashamed. Maybe scared. Sometimes disgusted. This boy though, _Daniel_ , he didn't look just for the sake of looking. I had a feeling that I wasn't a showpiece, like I was in other kids eyes. He was staring with a clear purpose: he wanted to catch my attention. He wanted me staring back at him and when I did, he looked back. He was playing hide and seek with me and he probably got a wrong impression of having a chance to lead this game.

 

Maybe hide and seek wasn't my favorite, but when it came to playing games I was a master.

 

If now I would be given a chance to say something to him, I would say: feel free to make another move. I'm in.

 

 

//

 

When Nicklas wasn't answering for the whole day I gave up on the idea of sharing my weed with him and I decided it was my turn to go for a walk now. Maybe a run would be something more suitable in my situation, but every sort of physical exercise made me think of swimming and I really wasn't up for contemplating the fact I first, didn't have a school to attend to, second I didn't have a swimming team where I could train. Now wasn't a good time to think of the consequences of my frivolous, desire-driven actions. Now was the time to escape the parents occupied territory and explore the Danish nature.

 

I decided to wander down the small streets and then turn into some greenish alleys and narrow roads leading between the houses. I didn't know where I was going, but I didn't feel lost. If anything, it felt liberating. I have to say I was never a big fan of walking and just staring at flowers and then nearly crying, because of their beauty. I was the kind, who would just walk past an extraordinary piece of nature and probably never acknowledge its extinctive bloom. I don't stop and stare, unless it is a fine piece of male flesh. So now, I was a bit surprised at how I have found myself lost within the overwhelming beauty of this place. The wind was gently whispering and the leaves and the grass and the trees were obeying its power, as well as shaping forms the wind enforced on them. Suddenly, the wind turned its course and it was blowing so strongly and aggressively, I felt as if my whole body would obey its power exactly the same way the floral nature did. You feel hollow and soulless and you desperately wish something would fill the empty insides, but nothing seems to be captivating enough. That was how I felt. And I was quite content with this feeling, because for a long, long time I was being weighed down, yet now as I walked and walked I didn't feel anything. And it was good and bad at both times.

 

The only moment I stopped was when I saw the kinda featureless shore that I wouldn't normally recognize, as the amount of trees were covering the rest of the view, but the wooden landing stage encouragingly lurked out and as I kept walking down that direction I soon discovered a path leading onto the bridge and the bridge leading onto the lake. As it was a very late afternoon and an early evening and the sun was still up, but as if tired and now distancing itself from the earth, the water looked all dark and even scary. Maybe scary was a wrong word to describe it, but mysterious. The kind of lake they picture in horror movies and as I kept staring at some point I expected the army of zombies slowly coming out. None of it happened, the lake was calm, the sun as distant as it was, it still shed a dim light and I could actually enjoy the last, warm beams of the day. Then I heard the splash of water. The regular one.

 

Someone was swimming.

 

Now, as I quickened my pace, I was almost by the end of the bridge. The white towel lying on the panels; the t-shirt and regular trousers next to it. I moved my gaze onto the dark point above the line of water and as the point came closer and closer I recognize the face of the boy. Daniel. Agger. The swimmer. Obviously, a professional. It took me one look at the way his hands cut through the almost still waves and how his back was falling below the surface. Every move was precise, his breathing as calculated and his eyes completely shut. I knew he'll only see me when he'll touch the verge of the bridge. That's the thing swimmers do: nothing exists except for the water and your head going down and then slightly up. You breath, but it doesn't feel like breathing. Even, in theory, you see, but it feels as if you were completely blind. Your own body guides you through the meters in front. And when I saw him doing the last, semi divings and I saw his arms stretching out to preserve himself from hitting his head against the wooden panels, I smiled. I couldn't wait for him to see me. I couldn't wait to see the water drops dripping down his face. His eyes from only two meters away.

 

The boy, who doesn't speak.

 

And when he saw me I could swear I saw his eyes widening a little, but it was so quick, so unnoticeable, I might have been wrong. He was breathing, but I didn't know if I heard any sound coming out. Maybe something like a delicate hiss, but he wasn't gasping for air. He wasn't moaning, as some swimmers do, when they finish by the line. He was well-composed. Both of his arms now holding onto the bridge. His jaw resting on the panels. His face was pale, milk-pale and his upper cheeks were covered with hundreds of little dots. The freckles. I deeply hated mine, but his were something that lightened up the emotionless face.

 

“Nicklas told me you are a good swimmer,” I said, without even knowing if he understood. Bendtner said he gets good grades, that he's quite a geeky student and if my grandma spoke fluently, the young mute was probably aware of the foreign languages as well. I wondered what it is like learning a language and knowing you'll probably never use it. What were the chances he'll get his voice back? Now wasn't the good time to ask.

 

“Yeah, I know, you don't speak. Nicklas told me that as well.”

 

He kept staring as shamelessly as he did yesterday. That combined with his unfazed features gave me rather a strange feeling of both excitement and uncertainty. I wanted more.

 

“You're Daniel, right?”

 

I waited for him to shake his head approvingly, so I would know he gets all that I say, but instead of nodding his head, he smiled. A little and quickly, but still. He smiled.

 

“Fernando,” I introduced myself, but I guess his siblings probably gave him a little intro already, as whenever I would go, I was welcomed with the same smile the Dane served me minutes before.

As the silence occurred, I was waiting for his move. If he would invite me over for a swim, I wouldn't hesitate for a second. If he would invite me not for a swim, but for a quick fuck in the lake, I wouldn't hesitate for a second as well. My whore self was already approving the sexual scenario, so whatever the boy would do, I would go right down with him. (Or on him.)

 

But he didn't do any of that. Instead, he pushed himself up and got out of the water. Now we were standing a meter away from each other and none of us were saying anything. He for obvious reason, me because I was marveling over his trained body. He was much taller than I was, so when he looked down on me: not only on my face, but then down on my torso, hips, thighs, finishing by my feet and then slowly, slowly undress me while going up, I was running short on breath. Pathetic, my inner self was saying. I couldn't look away. Both of his arms covered with tattoos. From his shoulders down up to his wrists. Fuck. Me. Now.

 

He reached for the towel and was now drying his body. After brazenly checking me out, he now decided to completely ignore me. A smart choice. I would do the same if I would saw someone lusting over me this evidently.

 

“I swim too,” I said finally and I realized it sounded more as a dare, than a ice-breaking piece of information. Honestly, I was up for a little competition with him being a main trophy after a killing win.

 

He grabbed his clothes and as he walked passed me, I said, “What about swimming tomorrow together? Seven in the evening?”

 

I knew he wouldn't say anything in response, but I took his prolonged stare as a yes.

 

“Let's see who's faster.”

 


	3. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy, enjoy, enjoy!

 

 

 

 

When Nicklas told me that the Sunday mass should be considered the next attraction, I couldn't fully understand why. Even still now, on my way to the church, I was more doubtful than curious. And more angry, than willing to appease my curiosity.

 

It was very early in the morning. So early, I didn't even have the guts to look at the clock in the kitchen when we were leaving the house. And the only time I considered it to be appropriate to wake me up at such hours, was when I had the morning training before classes started. I did exceptions for swimming. Only for swimming.

 

And now I was walking with Juergen, mom and grandma to the church. On our way we met few people and as they approached us, I felt judged and publicly shamed with the ironic grins and fake pleasantries. I loved how my mom pretended it never happened and how Juergen would probably happily join the hateful crowds, but the fact he was married to my mom and obliged by law to, at least respect me, he shut his mouth up.

 

As we got closer to the church and more of people came around, I kept looking for some familiar faces and I was surprised to recognize a lot of kids from the bonfire. Though, there was no sight of Nicklas. Maybe his parents were the only loving ones and they let him sleep as long as he wanted to on Sunday's.

 

I wondered what was the reason of me coming, when first, I didn't understand Danish this good to actually know what the hell this priest will be talking about and second, where we even of this faith? I mean, from what I remember, me and mom were Christian. And Juergen was lutheran. Or something like that I never frankly gave shit about. Well, I do believe that there is some sort of higher power, but I also believe that if God exists he doesn't think it is necessary for me to be up this early to celebrate his very existence. Actually, I think God must be a pretty cool guy. Probably very disappointed with the human race, but still, a good guy. I imagine him sitting with his arms crossed over his chest and thinking that this didn't really go as planned, but what the heck, there is no coming back now.

 

God would want for me to be in my bed now. Sleeping peacefully. Dreaming about some hot guy. Or bunch of hot guys. Exactly, about hot guys, I didn't see Daniel anywhere in the crowds and I did look good. The thought of him attending the mass kinda cheered me up, as if there was anything that could cheer me up at this hour, but I wanted to see more of him. I was curious.

 

Suddenly, when we were steps away from entering the church, my mom grabbed me by the elbow and pulled me closer. “Fernando,” she said coldly, seriously– and I knew it is going to be one of those warnings, because otherwise she wouldn't use this tone of voice. I really wanted to know what was it she thought it is so important to tell me. “We're here for Juergen and grandma. Please, behave.”

 

I offered her a large, full-teeth smile.

 

What the fuck was she thinking? That I'm the true Antichrist and I will burn at a touch of holy water? (Do they actually use holy water in the lutheran churches?)

 

“Mom,” I started gently, “you'll have me at my best.”

 

She rolled her eyes and as she passed by me to catch up with Juergen and grandma, she entered the church.

 

I walked in there on my own and to fit in, I tried imitating people's moves and gestures, but soon I recognized Juergen's back so I walked slowly to sit by them.

 

It was so quiet. So quiet I heard all the voices in my head. I even heard people breathing. And what was so typical, I saw people staring. Each step I took and each wooden bench I just passed by, I saw people turning their heads. Some were whispering. The others just shooting me rather cold glances of disapproval. Concentrate on the freaking God and not me, I wanted to say.

 

I sat next to mom and I quietly asked her when the whole party will start, but she just shushed me and I crossed my arms over the chest, trying to find a comfortable position.

 

I started looking around. From left to right. From right to left. From the front up until the back.

 

 _Daniel_. My eyes snapped open. He was sitting at the very back. Right, by the end of the bench. Next to him was his sister, then the bulky brother, as Nicklas liked to call him and the older guy must have been the father. I squinted my eyes to see if there was anyone else sitting there, but it was only the four of them. Would they come without the mother? Was she late? Was she out for vacation? Was she even alive?

 

I wish grandma was sitting next to me. She probably knew all the answers. Or Nicklas.

 

I took my phone out and started typing, I wanted to ask Bendtner where the hell was he, but then I heard my mother hissing angrily my name, and as I didn't respond, she just took the phone away from me.

 

I nodded my head. “Do you really have to do this?”

 

And as she turned to face me, she replied, “do _you_ really have to do this?”

 

Well, not really. But the mass didn't start just yet, and the phone was on mute.

 

About mutes: I turned my head delicately and I saw Daniel looking. Obviously, I didn't look back. I was gazing right at him, without paying much attention to the people around. I smiled, but he didn't smile back. He looked away.

 

I turned my eyes down, gazing at my shoes, I was grinning. He is _so_ shy. And I can easily tell, because he turns his eyes away the very minute it becomes inappropriate to look at the other person that way. And for so long. It is not long for me though, but for a shy person looking someone straight in the eyes, on purpose, always ends up with the shameful look-away. As if there was something wrong with keeping up such long stares. Well, after some time it was generally approved to be inappropriate, not in a sexual way, but in all-ways. My mom always told me: don't look at people for this long. Stop staring. But I guess I was born lacking this boundary. I had something people referred to as predator stare. I was incapable of politely turning my eyes away and the uninterrupted eye contact was something I found rather entertaining. I loved the way it put people off-balance. How it arose an unsettling feeling deep inside of them and they frowned, thinking, am I seducing them? Am I aggressive and willing to attack? Nevertheless, it gave me a strong feeling of superiority and I had to admit: I enjoyed it to every extend.

 

Then I felt my mother painfully nudging at my arm and as I looked around, everyone else was already standing so I straightened myself up.

 

It was the regular procedure of the priest showing up, the people murmuring in response, some sort of formula of words and chords following.

 

I deeply hoped it was going to last an hour top, so when I'll be back home I will have a delicious breakfast and will evacuate myself to spend the whole Sunday chilling in-between the sheets. Watching some porn. Movies. Talking on Skype with my amore– Sergio. Not to confuse with a boyfriend, lover or a sex-friend. We do used to have sex, yes, but he is more of my amore now, than anything less. Or more. Amore means he is the kind of a guy I would definitely be with, if I wouldn't be me. But thankfully I'm me, and Sergio will have to stay my amore. I believe that it doesn't make much sense, but I'm not the type of a person, who does boyfriend's stuff, or sex-friend's, or just fucking with no reason or no fucking, because I'm entitled to someone else. I do combine all of the mentioned before and I set my own rules of living without rules, so it is pretty difficult to follow me. Or catch me. Or define me. I like to think of myself as of something or someone undefinable and I can't imagine having the necessity to ever change that.

 

We sat down as the priest kept talking. The stuff he read from the bible I didn't fully understand, but the babbling that soon came on, I was surprised to see it was making sense in my head. Apparently living with Juergen for such a long time did have its positive results.

 

I turned my head again and I noticed Daniel looking straight in front of him. Focused. Then I shifted my glance onto his sister and I saw her playing with her hair. Her eyes were wandering and a little smile was curling around her lips. She was thinking about something definitely much more exciting than the priest preaching. She was probably thinking about someone she had sex with yesterday. Girls always smile that way after a satisfying orgasm. Then, it was the bulky brother. What was different though, was that when I looked at him, he was already staring at me. He probably thought I was checking out his little sister, but that was rather impossible. Everyone here knows I'm gay. That's why they all hate me.

 

I kept looking at him. Unfazed. Confident. Even a little aggressive with the way my jaw slowly clenched and my eyebrows narrowed. I was too good for them with all my tricks and games and inside traits of an animal. The bulky guy looked away. As all of them always do. But he wasn't shy, as Daniel was. He was angry. He was really angry that this eye-battle he lost. And I remembered grandma told me to not underestimate kids intelligence here, but this guy seemed plainly stupid. I wasn't going to bother myself with him.

 

The head of the Agger's family, the father, was all the time looking down on the floor. Praying. Murmuring. I didn't know what else was he doing, but he was all into it. So I could cross him out.

 

Daniel shot me a quick look. So quick most of the people wouldn't even recognize it, but I always saw all the details. I kept staring at him, because I knew that if I stare long enough, he will look up once again. And he did, so I smiled and as I caught him looking a little longer now, than he did before, I slowly parted my mouth and wetted the lower lip with the tip of my tongue. As he was still staring, I've done the same with my upper lip and shot him a lazy, lopsided grin at the end. How I would like to wet his lips with mine. And honestly, not only his lips. I would wet inch, by inch of his body. And I would do all of my best to make him moan, even if everyone claimed they didn't hear him saying a word for years. How he would be begging for more. Because he would be.

 

My mom quite angrily punched my arm and it was again, because I missed the time to stand up. Inevitably I broke the eye-contact and was now looking at the priest. He was a tall guy, as a majority of Danes. His posture was slim and his eyes looking in front, but not really catching anyone's attention.

 

Then we had to knee down, so I followed the crowd. And as everyone was looking right onto the floor, I again turned my gaze to face Daniel. He was looking at me as well. He didn't smile, but he bit his lower lip. Quite seductively.

 

There was something in his eyes. Something weirdly hollow. It wasn't the plain stupidity I accused his older brother of, but it was something cold and distant. Something I couldn't quite figure and I smiled, because I had a feeling, we might be both opposite sides of normality and everything else that came with it, but something was telling me, that out of all the people gathered here, even if Nicklas was somewhere around, we both had more in common than anyone else. He wasn't a good boy, as my grandma said he was. Whether he chose not be one, or something made him that way, he just wasn't good.

 

The rest of the mass went peacefully fine and I didn't look back once. I liked dozing my interest, in a way that it was driving the other person insane. It rarely happened that it drove me insane, though.

 

As it finished and people were standing up and walking out of their small alleys, I rushed to meet up with Daniel, but as I got near his bench, it was empty. I left the church without making any sort of goodbye-gestures towards the God, because I really wanted to grasp Agger's attention, before we meet up for an evening swim. If he shows up, of course.

 

Then I saw him standing on his own. A bit to the left, outside of the crowd in front of the entrance. I walked up slowly and I was happy to see he didn't turn away.

 

“So,” I started, “will I see you tonight by the lake?”

 

And he looked down on his shoes straight away. I didn't say anything more and I didn't touch him and I didn't really do anything, except for waiting patiently for him to look up. And he did after some time. As for someone I considered to be shy, he wasn't blushing. And shy guys usually do.

 

“Will I?”

 

And before he managed to do any sort of a gesture: nod, smile, frown, whatever that would be, his father came around. He was as tall, as Daniel was, if not even taller, and he shot me the kind of a smile, that isn't normally perceived as a smile. He just curved his lips in a weird manner, as if trying to be nice, but failing blatantly along the way.

 

He said something to Daniel so quickly, that even if I tried my hardest I wouldn't understand.

 

Then he put his hand on Daniel's nape and he almost forced him to make a move. I thought they're gonna walk away just like that, but then he turned his head. Daniel's father, not Daniel, and he said, “Find yourself a different friend.”

 

He said it so slowly– just to make sure I understood. And I did. But I didn't manage to say anything in response, because they walked away. Daniel's father hand still on the Dane's nape. And I was sure that his fingers were digging into his skin so harshly, they would make a red mark afterwards.

 

I kept staring, as they joined the sister and the brother, and walked in a completely opposite direction than the rest of the people did. I remembered Nicklas telling me they practically lived on their own, and their house being the only one in their neighborhood.

 

“Fernando!”

 

I quickly looked away to see my grandma going in my direction.

 

“We've been waiting for you!”

 

I nodded my head. “Sorry,” I replied, smiling widely.

 

“It's alright,” she said back. Holding onto my arm. “You tried making friends with the Agger's boy?”

 

“Kind of,” I said back.

 

“Then don't try to. I told you.”

 

I smiled even wider. “You should know that the more you tell me not do something, I will do exactly the opposite.”

 

“Your mom warned me about it.”

 

“Good that you didn't listen,” I replied with a large smile and as we joined Juergen and mom, we went home.

 

//

 

 

When it was getting closer to seven in the afternoon, I decided to still give this swimming dare a try and I took my towel on my way down the house. Mom and grandma were watching Danish TV. My mom drinking probably vodka tonic, and grandma side-glancing from her book. Juergen was sitting by the table with his laptop and his documents and he was all focused on his job. I thought I will manage to escape, without explaining where I'm heading to, but surely I should lower my expectations sometimes.

 

“Where do you think you're going?”

 

That was Juergen. And after his words my mom curiously turned her head, and she was followed by grandma doing exactly the same move. All the eyes focused on me.

 

“Swimming.”

 

“Swimming? Now?”

 

“Yes, I wanted to practice.”

 

“Why? I don't think it's necessary, as you're no longer on the team and I highly doubt you'll ever find yourself a place to be in one.”

 

“Look, Juergen,” I said calmly and as nicely as I could, “I might not be on a swimming team anymore, but I need to swim. As badly as I need to breathe. It would make me very happy if you could understand that for once.”

 

I smiled. And I was very happy to see his eyes widening, cause normally I would just walk out of the door and don't give two shits, but now as grandma was looking, I had to play a little. Destroy the badly written profile both of my parents so gladly made for me.

 

The thing with Juergen though, was that he wasn't so easy to fool. First years of course, I've done all that I wanted to and my manipulation skills grew bigger and bigger, yet he learned what he should after all the years of coping with me, and maybe I wasn't his biggest fan, and he wasn't mine, but I would never consider him a stupid men.

 

“Fernando, I perfectly understand you need to swim. A habit is a habit. Very tough to break through. But I've already found you a new activity, that you're going to take up this summer and if apart from that activity you find time for swimming, then I'll be very happy. And even proud.”

 

What was he talking about?

 

“Tomorrow you start your new job.”

 

He smiled and then he got back to typing on the computer. I looked around to see that my mom was now sipping on her drink and back to watching TV, but my grandma was now a little worriedly looking, shifting her graze from me to Juergen. And back.

 

“I thought we're here for the holidays.”

 

“We are. Me and your mom are relaxing a lot, but since you were relaxing for the past years, I decided this summer you take up a job. You earn your own money. You do something with your free time.”

 

That was an utter bullshit. Every fucking summer I was swimming on a daily basis. Training insanely hard. Going to all the swimming summer camps and voiding myself of pleasure of not doing anything. Alright, school was a whole different thing, but to say I was never busy with anything was a fat-ass lie I wasn't going to accept.

 

“Why are you lying?”

 

“I'm not,” he shot me a gentle smile. “You start your new job tomorrow.”

 

He was so happy he finally learned how to play almost equally good as I did. “That wasn't what I was talking about.”

 

“Tomorrow you wake up at five in the morning, you eat breakfast you prepare yourself and you leave the house before six as at six in the morning the pick-up car takes all the boys in the village to the fields near the woods. For eight hours, five times per week, you chop the wood. Unless they assign you a different task, which is highly unlikely. That was the only vacant position.”

 

Vacant position? He thought he was fucking funny. But I didn't loose my composure.

 

“I'm going back to Madrid tomorrow then,” I replied calmly, but that only made Juergen laugh extremely loud.

 

“Good luck, Fernando, I wish you all the good luck.”

 

“I'm not going to chop–“

 

“Why not? You're not strong enough? The best young athlete in the whole Madrid? Not strong enough to chop the wood?”

 

That was a very pathetic move. To provoke me using these both was just below any standards and class, but now I didn't have any choice. I respected myself enough to do this, as otherwise I would be never able to look myself in the eyes. To let Juergen win? To prove him right? And not wrong? That never happened and will never happen.

 

“Juergen,” I heard grandma saying something, but Juergen cut her off immediately.

 

“No mom, this time you stay away from this.”

 

She didn't say anything anymore and Juergen stood up only to come all the way to the door and lock it. He really thought it will stop me from going out?

 

“And one last thing, Fernando. Me and mom decided that if you don't show up, or that you skip your hours and behave inappropriately, we're not going to be giving you any money or any food. You always like to say you're an adult, now you have a chance to act like one.”

 

I turned away to face my mom. “Mom,” I said a bit too angrily, “is that even true?”

 

“Fernando, listen, Juergen is maybe bringing this up too harshly, but you need to learn.”

 

“You planned it before and you didn't even tell me?”

 

My voice wasn't angry now. I was just asking, but she didn't reply. Yet it made sense. That was the reason why they took me here. And I was stupid enough too not see the whole trick behind it.

 

“Good night,” I said and I slowly made my way up.

 

Making a whole, big show out of it would be the biggest mistake. Something they would expect me to do and that would give them a feeling of a victory. I was too proud for this.

 

As I lied down on the bed, staring at the wall in front, I wasn't thinking about how I'm going to manage chopping the wood for eight hours a day. Or if the rest of the guys working will not use it as a way to chop me into pieces, instead of the wood.

 

If anything, I was wondering how the hell will I wake up at five in the morning for five days per week.

 


	4. 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What else can I say? Enjoy!

 

 

 

I knew I wasn't going to make it on time. Not because I didn't want to, but because a part of me responsible for waking up this early wasn't yet programmed to do so. When it came to work some people felt the responsibility, some felt fear, some just knew they had to do it and they've done it, but with me it was always a bit too complicated.

 

And I was always a bit too proud to do exactly what people wanted me to do.

 

So I ended up not eating breakfast and running in a freezing, morning rain to the bus stop, where the pick-up car was supposed to take us from. Juergen didn't tell me any specific instructions, but this village wasn't a multi-million metropolis. You had five streets top and the one they called main was the easiest to recognize. Unless you were an idiot.

 

Which wasn't my case.

 

Still. I was late. Only seconds late, but the car was gone. I saw it driving away and I threw my hands up in exasperation, because damn it, damn it, damn it –

 

what now?

 

I desperately looked around the empty street. The rain was pouring and I didn't know where to go or worse, what to do. Going back home was entirely out of the line. Waiting for another bus was, well, pointless. The car goes once a day. Then it comes back in the afternoon. If I knew where it was I could maybe go on my own, run, whatever– _Nicklas_.

 

I took my phone out and I hit his number, but after few seconds he hung up.

 

Weird, but it meant he was up. Or pissed that I'm waking him at this horrible hour.  _'”I missed the bus for the woods. The place where they chop the wood, Christ, how do I get there?”_

 

He replied shortly. “ _I'm in the car. Why didn't you tell me you were going to work there? It's eight kilometers away. Literally just go straight and then you'll see a road on a side. It will lead you here.”_

 

Couldn't it be more confusing? Just go straight and then you'll see a road? Jesus, maybe there are several roads on the side on my way?

 

But what else was I supposed to do? Go back home? No way.

 

So I walked. First, kinda slowly. But as I left the village and the rain kept pouring down with the same intensity it did about fifteen minutes before, I fastened my pace. I must have walked two kilometers, when I finally realized that I could be walking like this forever and it wouldn't make more much sense. Completely wet, extremely hungry, almost an hour late – I had to run. What was another six kilometers? I had comfortable shoes on, some worn-out jeans and finally, I was an athlete for God's sake. I've done six kilometers like it would be an appetizer.

 

So I run. It was a bit more difficult, cause my clothes were tightly clinging onto my body, I didn't have proper breakfast and I kept looking around, so I wouldn't run past the side-road. The funny thing was, that Nicklas was kinda right. There was nothing else here. Just the green surrounding the road, which went on and on, as it would never end. I couldn't possibly miss the path and after some quite agonizing forty minutes, I turned right.

 

I slowed down, getting my breath more composed.

 

Meters and meters in front I saw the same pick-up car that run away from me in the village and I smiled. Whatever else would happen later on, it didn't matter, because I got my ass here.

 

There were about twelve guys, all of them already busy doing their job. When they saw me coming closer, some of them immediately started either laughing or whispering, or doing both and I just rolled my eyes. So I was gay, Christ, a big fucking deal. It didn't really hurt my feelings, because I've been through all that much before and as a first, openly gay swimmer to reach the pre-Olympics junior team I really did go through a lot of crap, but if anything, it only made me stronger.

 

I looked around expecting Nicklas to be somewhere here, but there was no sight of his dark blonde hair and a ridicolously happy face. I didn't know what to do, or who to ask what am I supposed to do and I felt like maybe I should call it quits– then I heard someone loudly grunting behind me and I turned to see a tall, pale men. They were all usually tall and pale and I realized I will soon need a better vocabulary to describe their features. Despite the description sounding much familiar, it wasn't Daniel. The man standing in front of me was about fifty years old. Wearing a worn-out, white T-shirt and a angry look that didn't really fit his face well.

 

He started speaking something in Danish so fast, I didn't understand a word. It was like a storm of sounds, that echoed without leaving any message behind. He must have realized I didn't know what the hell was he talking about, because he stopped, made an even angrier expression, and said, “You're from Juergen?”

 

English. He used English. Thank God. I nodded my head.

 

“You're late,” he pointed out.

 

“I know. I missed the car.”

 

“Next time you make sure you don't miss the car. You understand?”

 

Again, I nodded my head.

 

“Here,” he handed me a heavy, very old-school, very horror-movie style axe. Was it a joke? This is a twenty first century and when I looked around, all guys– mostly all– were using the chainsaw-kind of a tool. And that meant they could chop the woods at least three times faster than I, and they probably finished earlier too. But no one said life was going to be fair, right?

 

“Break starts at twelve and it lasts forty minutes. But you came late, so today you don't have the break.”

 

Excuse me?

 

“Go to work.”

 

And leaving me without any further instructions, he walked back to his little, wooden house, where he will probably sit on his ass the whole day, supervising the crowd.

 

At least it stopped raining.

 

For few minutes I stood there, with the axe, observing how they worked, so I could get the pattern into my head and follow it straight for eight hours.

 

But thankfully, Nicklas came out of the woods and– Jesus, Daniel was walking few meters behind him.

 

_Daniel_ . Oh God. Yes. Better. Much better now. 

 

The minute Bendtner saw me, he quickened his pace, grabbed a bottle of water on his way and walked up to me.

 

“What is Agger doing here?”

 

I asked, lurking behind Nicklas arm, to catch Daniel's attention.

 

Bendtner smiled, as if he already knew I was going to pop the question. “You're not letting him go, right?”

 

As I kept staring, I answered, “No.”

 

Why would I? This guy was probably the only thing that will keep me from going insane here, so why should I let him go?

 

The rule I most certainly always went by, was saying, that if I want something, I go for it. Period. 

 

A second later I came to a rather strange realization that I didn't even know whether Daniel was gay, but–

 

'”Is he gay?”

 

And Nicklas turned his head to face me, rolling his eyes. “Jesus, Fernando, relax. You're here to chop the wood, not to seduce every, single guy.”

 

“I wasn't asking about the guys. I was asking about him.”

 

“I don't know, alright? Why even would I?”

 

“Okay, easy, Nick. Easy. That was just a question.”

 

Guess I will have to figure it out on my own.

 

“So, here is your place,” he walked me to the last row, with the pales of wood. Most of them were couple of meteres long, some already chopped into smaller pieces. Seriously, nothing actually grabbing my attention, but the place came with the view onto the whole group– rather guy's backs, but still. No one was standing behind me. That was quite a relief. In case of any attacks, I can be 90 percent sure they'll be chopping my head off from the front.

 

“This pale of wood you chop into regular pieces of one meter long. It doesn't have to be strictly accurate, cause later on machines in the factories do the precise work. Okay, but once you finish, you put it onto the barrow. Me, Daniel, and few other guys take it across the wood, to the place where it is stored all together. We mark it and then the big trucks come and take it somewhere else. Half of it also reaches the market and people from the nearest villages come to buy it for their households.”

 

I was nodding my head, pretending to listen, when in reality my eyes were locked on Daniel, who was now sitting at a bench far on my left side. He was drinking water straight from the bottle. His head now a little popped back. His neck long, pale– perfectly shaped for the passionate skin sucking, licking, biting– and all that I loved most about the foreplay.

 

Damn. I should be praying that I don't end up working with a boner for eight hours straight. Especially when this homofobic village didn't provide any possible relief for this kind of struggle and Sergio was too far away to come help me out.

 

Suddenly, I saw Daniel's head turning and he shot me a quick, abashed glance, which didn't even last long enough for me to cherish it.

 

“If you're gonna keep looking at people like that, you'll get yourself in trouble here.”

 

Nicklas serious tone of voice got me out of the reverie, but well, this I already knew. Also, I was much aware of the fact that my predator stare couldn't be controlled and my animal-like feelings, difficult to bare with.

 

“I have to get back to work,” he said, quite coldly. Probably already tired of my behavior. Or, as my grandma previously said, I was just too much of everything they were told to hate, to punish, to ridicule, to ignore, to be disgusted with. And me, instead of staying within the safe boundaries, I went beyond. As I always did.

 

“Sure,” I said, not really giving his distanced and cold behavior a second thought.

 

I watched Nicklas re-joining with his group, saying couple of things I wouldn't probably understand even if I would be close enough to hear what he had been saying. I still kept looking at Daniel, knowing he wasn't going to turn around, to smile, to do something indicating he was at least a bit interested. But maybe that was the reason why I kept wanting more and I kept exposing myself to whatever risky consequences might have been out there for me– just for a slight chance of feeling a bit more alive than I did now.

 

But as Nicklas and other boys, including Daniel, went back to the woods, I realized it was better that I started working. And at first, I thought it was going to be idiotically easy. I mean, there was nothing complicated in chopping the wood into regular pieces, but it did demand some sort of repetetive composure that I felt I was lacking. Few times it happened that despite the strength of my mussels, the axe got stuck in the wood and I have found it much difficult to pull it back. The fifth time it happened, I realized couple of guys were watching me, with their heads turned and their lips curved in silly, ironic grins. As long as I kept ignoring them, they kept staring, but the minute I drove my eyes up, they quickly got back to work.

 

How could I not call them stupid? How could I not feel angry? Or at least slightly irritated?

 

Because, fuck this shit, it wasn't even about being gay in the end. It was about the simple, human decency. I don't go around pointing fingers at them, because they lick pussy. Which I highly doubt they do, but still – I just expected the normality, because I was normal.

 

(Despite some people saying I was not.)

 

And when I thought it all was just a minor coincidence, something I could overlook, because grandma's words kept echoing in my head, and I said to myself – you're way smarter than that, the break started and as I came late, I didn't get to have a pause, so I kept on working, while the entire group went behind my back to chill on the benches and eat their lunch and talk and laugh and apparently, call me names.

 

Maybe my Danish grammar was still in need of a lot of improvement, but I was quite good with vocabulary. At least, with that kind of vocabulary I thought I might find usefull in the future, and when one of those tall, pale, blonde and freckled boys walked past me, calling me a faggot, I did understand.

 

He shot me a sweet smile. And he kept repeating the word faggot underneath his nose, as I kept staring at him, from behind my arm. And even though he was the one to look away first, unable to bare my shameless look, I knew he felt this sort of proudness. Like he did the hero thing – after all he called me a faggot – _shit_ , that must have saved the world from all the homos out there just waiting to pound the innocent, straight little holes.

 

I lightly nodded my head in half dibelieve, half amusement, because I've been called a faggot a countless number of times, **seriously** , I stopped caring at the age of fifteen or less. I stopped giving a fuck after third, or fourth time they beat the living shit out of me – usually a group against me, and only me, a very fair kind of a battle – and at the age of sixteen I learned to fight back. Actually, I guess I must have been a bit younger than that, when I replaced the not-doing-anything attitude with the nearly boiling my blood anger, because no one, _no one_ , will disrespect me. And some may say that calling me a faggot was disrespectful, but in reality, it was not. It was a blatant truth. I was a faggot. A cock-sucker. A queer. A queen. All those things heterosexual, narrow-minded, homofobic man liked to call me. And they took an actual pride in that.

 

So, I just laughed. Because at some point there was nothing else you could do. I mean, the other options were to either get in a fight, or shrink inside and wish you were straight. And as much as I completely exlucded the last, two options, I never really thought of not using the physical power. My mom, Juergen, great number of my previous teachers and psychologists who were required to “investigate” my case, said that the physical violence was never a proper answer, and I did, at least partially, agree with that, but people needed to know, that homosexual boys, when shamed, ridiculed, punished and beaten, were all sentenced to this kind of harrasment, because others thought they were not strong enough, and harrasment of any kind was usually about the display of power. I might go and hand them cards saying, “I'm a human being, just as you are” or I might as well break their noses, ribs and jaws and be sure they'll never touch me again, because they would consider me an equal.

 

Call that being politically incorrect, but that was how I survived until now and I wasn't going to feel bad about it, because too many of boys like me, meaning homosexual boys, cut their veins open and hung themselves up in their rooms, only because some scared, immature and homofobic “heroes” went way too far too many times displaying their _power_ and their _fears_.

 

“Hey, Nick,” I caught Bendtner on his way back from the woods. He didn't reply. “Nicklas!” for fuck's sake, he still didn't turn around. And for a second I thought he seriously didn't hear me calling him, but the second he sat next to his friends, I realized, very clearly, what it was about. Bonfire and pot – we're friends. Work and a typically _manly_ surrounding – sadly, we're not friends anymore. I rolled my eyes.

 

And in all honesty I just wanted to ask where the fucking water was, because it felt like I might die soon from the dehydration. But as usually, I will have to figure it out on my own.

 

I wondered where Daniel was, because he wasn't sitting with the other guys and I slowly looked around, and there, there he was. Sitting in the same spot I caught him before. Far on the left. On his own. Drinking water and eating something. Oh God, I was so hungry. And thirsty. But what I was supposed to do? Came up and ask for a sandwich? So fourth grade. So not going to happen.

 

That way, I kept doing my job. It felt a bit ridicolous, but once I got into the routine, not much around mattered and I just kept chopping, and chopping and chopping until I suddenly saw Daniel standing not far away, putting the pieces onto the wheelbarrow.

 

Oh, so he picked me. Good to know.

 

I straightened myself up and I grabbed the hem of my shirt, only to tug it higher and dry my sweaty face off. I knew he wouldn't be able to look away and he'll give into the little, private show. I hope he enjoyed the view.

 

“I couldn't make it yesterday,” I said to him, once I put my shirt down and got close enough for me to speak a bit quieter, so others wouldn't hear.

 

“Yeah, I know what you're thinking now,” I smiled and I was pleased to see him smiling a little bit too. He wasn't looking at me, while I was talking. He busied himself with putting the chopped pieces, but he smiled, a little, and with a corner of his lips and damn, that was somewhat cute. “That I panicked and backed off and that I can't handle a proper challenge and that is completely untrue, you need to know.”

 

He suddenly looked up and gave me a very serious kind of a look. Like it would be saying that I need to cut the bullshit.

 

“Really,” I said. And I shot him my most persuasive look.

 

“You can try me out one day, if you want to,” I added with a provocative smile, but I kept my voice by the quite casual tone. Yet, the minute the meaning of these words reached his mind, he suddenly withdrawn, as I've made that one step too far. Like I should have leave it for some other time, because with my talking and skin baring and smiling, I was already pushing him too much.

 

A part of me knew he wanted to try. To give in. But a part of me was thinking about this boy's innocence and trauma and whatever else that was to him, that I had no idea of.

 

Though, I was willing to find out. Actually, with our every, next encounter I realized that I was more than willing.

 

“Agger!”

 

Nicklas was loudly shouting from the verge of the woods. The break was long finished and everyone already got back to work. Obviously Daniel didn't respond, not even with a one glance, or one smile or a gesture. He turned around with the barrow and when I thought that this is it and I'll probably loose track of him for God knows how many minutes, or hours, he turned. Took the small bottle of water that was lying inside the wheelbarrow and threw it to me. Still no smile, nothing much I could trace on his face, but that was nice, right?

 

“Thanks,” I said quickly and I opened it up, only to be nearly downing it within not even a minute.

 

Daniel was gone, and everyone else was working, and maybe I was really crazy, but for a short seconds it felt like I had tasted his lips. And his tongue. And his saliva, and it was probably my imagination playing tricks, but I wanted more, much more than I was getting now.

 


	5. 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Superextremelysorryfornotupdating. Super. Extremely. Sorry. Not only was I busy, but completely blown away at how easy it was to write SMQ, and how terribly not easy it was to write this one. But once I started, and then went through couple of difficulties, such as: index finger nearly cut in half, constant hangovers, travels, and fake emotional high & downs, etc, and don't let me blab too much - here's the fifth chapter. And it has nearly 7000 words, so it's like a big make-up for the delay. I hope you all like it, enjoy it, have good time with it. And that you report back to me. Each comment makes my heart grow fonder. But you all know that.
> 
> So, enough with me. Enjoy this piece. Much love to all of you out there.

 

 

 

 

 

I have never really saw myself as an negativity-influenced person. Well, don't get me wrong, I'm not as calm as the lotos flower either, but I never really believed in the magic power of yoga. Tao-something. Yin and Yang. Letting Buddhism guide you through your way. I'm pretty chaotic, if anything. Emotions-driven. Almost entirely voided of any calm sensibility. The minute I feel my life is loosing the ocean's characteristic – disturbed, dangerous, unsteady – I make it my highest priority to bring it back on its thrilling track. People say I'm reckless, and that is true, I am. I seek risk notoriously. Something that would shoot my veins with adrenaline and it would be pumping in my blood satisfyingly long.

 

And now. Now try to imagine _me_ , with all the given traits above, **chopping the wood for eight hours per day** _ **.**_ To say I was going insane wasn't doing me any justice, and no, this one wasn't about exhaustion. It wasn't about the non-friendly working environment. Wasn't about Daniel, or Nicklas, or homophobic remarks. It was about the repetitive movement. The same smell of wood, grass, trees, people, looks. All the same. Every minute, hour, day. My inner craziness was slowly and painfully dying and I was terribly sad to see it go away. It's been only three days and I let them cage me into quite strict boundaries. What a shame.

 

“You, faggot, faster,” the Danish boy said and I turned my head slowly, very slowly, to eye him with something like hidden hatred. He stood by the wheelbarrow, waiting for the last few pieces of wood to fill the equipment, so he would be free to go. I deliberately prolonged the process, knowing that his impatience was something I could play with for my own enjoyment. The same way he played with mine. He spoke English to me only when we were both at the close distance, and he chose his words carefully, but I rarely responded. Which, from my years-lasting observations, usually made the opponent even angrier. So I didn't really have to bother myself with anything exclusive, as my silence was doing enough of good job. But as mentioned before, I was bored. _Extremely_ bored. I wanted to experiment, play, pull, drag, pinch all of his insides. Be a little nasty.

 

So, as I chopped the last piece that would fit into the barrow, instead of handing it to him, I made few steps closer. Facing my partner not so innocently anymore. He grabbed at the opposite end of the wooden piece, pulling it strongly, but I didn't give up.

 

“You know,” I started, smiling underneath my nose, “I've came across guys like you many times. And you want to know what was my greatest discovery with your species? That deep down you're just the same as I am,” and when the confused expression passed through his face, I leaned closer, much closer and I whispered to his ear, “A faggot. Let me call you like that, because it seems like you're really fond of this word,” and when the loud, irregular breath was what I heard as a response, I added, “Maybe underneath the well pretended hatred is a very passionate need to have your cock sucked. By another guy. By me?”

 

And then, then he pushed me back. Not using much of strength, but still, quite obviously for me to know I have to stay away. I was widely smiling. Looking him straight into his eyes.

 

“You're disgusting,” he replied and a rich, but not really loud laugh escaped my lips.

 

Amused. I was amused.

 

“Then maybe you're just as disgusting as I am,” I answered. “Think about it.”

 

I shot him a sweet, very sweet smile and I moved these few steps back to my previous spot. I grabbed the axe and I didn't pay attention to any of his further gestures, until he disappeared in the woods.

 

Soon, it was time for the break. Forty minutes of sitting alone on the bench: eating, drinking, and contemplating I was back in Madrid. Back training. Back with Sergio and many others of my gay and non-gay friends. Sergio I missed the least, because he was nothing more than just a beautifully shaped, long and pink penis. Curved a bit to the left. Oh, and the features of a greek God. Arms strong, thighs lean, back muscular. Then, after all, maybe I missed Sergio a bit more than I thought I did. Especially when it's been almost two weeks since I had sex for the last time and God trust me, I needed a non-handmade orgasm. Desperately.

 

I looked around the guys who were all now gathering to sit down together for the pause. Daniel between them. Which I found weird, as for the past days he was dining on his own, but then again I kinda intruded his territory, so no wonder he picked the group. Maybe he was as fearful as Nicklas was. Or he just didn't give a fuck. But I had a feeling he was more fearful, than neglecting. But he didn't fear the crowd rejecting him, as Nicklas did. They already did reject him. I observed the group and none of the guys made at least slight effort to communicate with Daniel. To look at him. To talk to him. He was the real outcast, not me, I realized. Towards me they had feelings. Of course, the feelings of all negative shades, but still, these were _feelings_. Him? They just blatantly ignored his presence. All blind to see beneath the steady and composed impression Daniel made. I knew there was something beneath. I just knew.

 

And then, almost the entire group turned their heads and looked at me. For first few seconds I was a bit disoriented, as in all honesty, I wasn't the prettiest while eating, but then I saw _the boy_ aka _the second faggot_ of the crowd talking, sort of telling the story, and then I just knew in a blink of an eye it was all about what I said before to him. So I smiled and waved my hand at them, happily, as happily as the British child when seeing the Queen passing through the crowds. I had to say that in a way I enjoyed being the center of attention. The one they talked about. People spoiled me with that much earlier and I got used to being so important they all made an actual effort to have an opinion about me, or about the things I've done. Flattering, wasn't it?

 

Now they all got back to talking in-between each other and I could focus on eating the terrible, _terrible_ sandwich I've made for myself in the morning. I had a feeling I was still strongly asleep while putting the ingredients between the bread slices, because something wasn't tasting quite alright, but then again, once you spend the day on the field I believe even a twenty year old shoe would taste as an absolute, worth of Michelin three stars dish.

 

I looked up and I noticed Daniel staring. The distance between us was about ten meters long so I couldn't be entirely sure he was staring right at me, because maybe it was the trees high behind me that caught his attention, but even still that gave me a chance to shot my glance at him as well. I needed to do something, because the tension between us was palpable and it began to drive me crazy. From that first evening when I saw him staring at me with those wild, grey eyes. Or maybe they were green. I had no idea. Nevertheless, I needed to do something. _Something._ But I was completely and utterly clueless. No hints. No directions. Nothing I could be holding on to that would lead me a certain way. And observing him, as much as it brought some sort of odd pleasure, was not enough.

 

I lied down the wooden bench, straightening my sore back and arms. I still had about twenty minutes left and I was going to spend them just resting. With my eyes closed, body relaxed, the gentle wind breeze lulling me to sleep. The bits of Danish language slowly reaching my ears, but with every passing minute the voices came from much afar and I was just drifting, drifting to a much calmer, much steady world of dreams. Naturally I lost the track of time and I was just lying there, half-asleep, until someone's brutal punch woke me up from the snooze. I quickly opened my eyes, noticing Nicklas tall body hovering over me.

 

“Fernando, time to get back to work,” he said; the first time that he spoke to me in three days. I got up, but before I managed to say something slightly making sense, my so-called friend was already gone. Rejoining with his crew. Was I angry? Sad? No, not really. A little bit disappointed, because from what I remembered Nicklas was always the one I had loads of fun with, and it was going to be such a shame that he was willing to give it all up just for the approval of his lads. But what else could I do? Manifest my quite bitter feelings? No, seriously, who has time and energy for seeking understanding within people who feel as if they were predestined to reject you? Maybe I should have more sympathy for those fearing the social ostracism, because as my mother liked to say, _not everyone is this much against the social norms as you,_ but no, a strong, confident no for those who opt for an easy way out.

 

“Oh, you again,” I smiled towards my previous partner already standing by the barrow, as I made my way to the marked spot, and the axe lying heavily on the ground. “If you wanna be friends with me, you will have to try harder though. And don't think I'll blow you just because you stand here like a well-behaved dog. I respect myself,” I smiled, knowing that the smile I just offered him was lecherous, brazen and voided of self-control. Saying things like that around here will sooner than later bring me into some sort of trouble, but who would I be kidding, I lived for trouble. And frankly speaking, I didn't really respect myself, but his virgin ass didn't have to know that.

 

“You're nothing, but a container for the AIDS,” he answered back, and I was nearly surprised to see with how much of disgust this one, simple sentence was filled.

 

“I need to tell you that the AIDS remarks were more offensive in the 90's than they are now. You're late about 10 years with that joke, but don't worry, I'll treat you nicely. You get to pick the condom.”

 

I think, what pissed him the most was how much fun the whole dialogue was for me, and how much of an annoyance it was for him. I was most deeply amused, and he was terrified, disgusted and angry.

 

“It's sexual harassment,” he hissed and I broke down with an honest laugh.

 

“It's not sexual harassment, if you're asking for it. I'm an expert in providing high quality pleasure, so don't be such a prude.”

 

And when I made the final cut, and wanted to hand him the piece, I realized my _friend_ was gone. He walked up to the group standing by the verge of the woods and he angrily pushed Agger out. Daniel seemed a bit disoriented, looking around at all the guys. Then, then he slowly, very slowly made his way to my spot. Yes! If I knew earlier that the little, and entirely meaningless talk like that would result in such a swap, I would've done the show right away. But interestingly, not only Agger was the outcast, but something like the _sacrificial lamb._ No one asked him if he wants to be dropped here, they just automatically assumed he won't protest. Idiots.

 

As he made his way over my place, I tried taking down the ironic smile and offer him the one that was gentle, delicate, a bit seductive. Yet I was surprised to see that once he came around, he seemed to be much irritated, and I wondered, whether it was caused by his neglecting peers, or it was purely about me. I opened my mouth to say something, but when my eyes met his, I have found myself being incapable of formulating a single word. So I shut my mouth, and I lowered my head, and I decided to act like I never did before, for the boy I never expected to meet. Instead, I shot him many, _many_ of side-glances, and I felt the range of all emotions slowly building up. This tension and need, a constant need, to get closer, to feel something much better than what I was feeling now. To know his skin texture, when it brushes against mine. To know how his breath feels against my open mouth. How warm it is against my neck. How wet his tongue is against my tongue. How _he_ feels pressed against _me_. If this is how hell looks like – him being so close, but not close enough – then I'd rather pray for heaven.

 

I straightened my back and I saw him staring with this something unexplained in his eyes, “what?” I asked, and he just nodded his head. But in a way, as he would be disapproving with something I did, and I had absolutely no idea, why would he make that gesture.

 

“There is definitely something,” I said, “but you just want to keep it to yourself. And that's a mistake.”

 

Suddenly I noticed him smiling with a corner of his lips, and I beg all the gods, I'll go crazy. Because of him, for him, in all the possible ways. And partially I knew this was all my fault, my wanting, it was me, and not him. It was, because I was not satisfied with the life I was leading, so I picked my fun, my yearning, my trophy, and I would go as far as necessary to get what I wanted. Why? Simply because I could and there was nothing stopping me.

 

But Daniel – Christ, how good this name sounds rolling off my tongue, and blasting loud in my mind – remained completely indifferent towards any of what I said, and by the time now I got used to the idea of not hearing a vocal reply, but I became so disappointed when not seeing _any_ alteration in his behavior. I was either too much, or not nearly enough for his liking, and for someone who was always perceived to be either black, or white, I could not accept any gray. I despised in-betweens with all the emptiness of my heart.

 

“You,” I heard a daring tone of voice right behind me, so I turned, and I saw a face I wouldn't normally associate with anything meaningful, but his look was serious, and his posture was heavy, and maybe the time has come for me to pay for the _sinful_ proposals.

 

“Yes, me,” I answered with that silly smile, not really knowing why I was so utterly amused all the fucking time.

 

“You think it's so funny?”

 

“Well,” I made a pause, “it depends what. But if you're trying to scare me, then you picked the wrong person.”

 

I shot him another smile and I turned to get back to work. Daniel was sipping on his water and once I looked at him I noticed his rather puzzled expression. But then, a very aggressive hand landed on my arm, and it pulled me back.

 

“Listen,” he said, English filled with that Danish accent I so well recognized, because he sounded like Juergen, and that, trust me, it's difficult to forget. “You either shut the fuck up, or this will end badly for you.”

 

“Really? This doesn't sound much convincing. Think about something better, and then come back to me,” and he shot me a quite long, intensive stare, and I knew this look perfectly. He was wondering whether to say something, or punch me right now without really giving it a second thought, and when he freed my arm, and walk past me, but so angrily that his arm nudged at mine, and I was pushed aside, I knew he will wait till another moment comes around. And it would, because I wouldn't stop at that. Their fury fueled my attitude. Always.

 

I breathed out, and I turned to look at Daniel. He again was nodding his head in the same way as before, and now I knew. It was about me, and about the things I've done, at it was the kind of nod my mom used to make when I was a bit younger and I've done something she wouldn't think was appropriate. _Fernando? You? Again?_ – that, that was what it meant. And I smiled underneath, because Christ, I was so getting better at finding explanation to his little expressions, and gestures, and no, it wasn't easy, but damn, so worth it. Like a secret communication code that made everything about him ten times more fascinating.

 

“Don't make that face,” I said to him, while I got around to chopping new pieces, “he came up to me, and he started this useless talk. Is he the boss here?”

 

And Agger looked behind his arm to probably spot the guy I was telling him about, and it took him less than ten seconds, before he turned his head to face me, and he nodded his head. It was a yes kind of a nod. I got it. The little faggot got scared, told things to the mummy, and the mummy came around to tell me that I do the same thing once again and she'll finish me. Funny how our playground reminded me of the same one I used to have as a child. Turns out, as you grow older you don't grow out of your old toys. You just find yourself the new versions that would suit the new kind of your fucked up. And mine's were doing hell of a good job.

 

I observed the group's dynamics: the boss aka the mummy, the Danish boy I scared with my encouraging talk, Nicklas, the rest of the crew. How they moved, spoke, behaved towards each other. Who had the power, and who had the least of it. Who was the bully, who was afraid. Who never looked up. Who kept looking around all the time. Soon I was able to reason out some sort of mandatory rules that were applied here, and no, my plan wasn't to obey them, quite the contrary I would say, my plan was to get to know about the rules, and then destroy the standing one's – not with a cause to free the oppressed, but with a cause to free myself.

 

But before I was able to execute that outstanding idea, I had to first finish my working day and thankfully it was coming to an end. I didn't know whether it was all thanks to Daniel – as the time passed by so quickly, or I was just getting used to the idea of being here for the eight hours, five or six days per week. With these people, surrounded by their insecurities, and fears. And my own greed for the companion standing not even two meters away.

 

The older guy, who was here the entire eight hours, supervising the crowd, and not really doing shit, left his small, wooden house and was now saying something loudly in Danish. I understood bits, and these bits were saying we would be leaving soon, _bla bla bla_ , and that we need to put all the equipment in the wooden shed standing next to his place, where all the tools are kept, _bla bla bla_ , and as much as I considered my language skills to be strong and effective, I didn't really bother myself with understanding everything fully. I just kinda did what everyone else had done, and once I went inside of the shed, crowded with about fifteen boys, I kinda had to push against their tall postures to get to the toolboxes and tables where it was all stored. I lost sight of Daniel, but instead I have found myself standing next to Nicklas, the mummy, and the little faggot, and when I saw my childhood friend to be much afraid of getting into an eye-contact with me, I just kinda laughed on the inside. I wondered where he's going to be on Friday afternoon. With his crew, or with my bag of pot?

 

“So,” I said to the lil faggot, even though every sane mind of every sane person would tell me that was the time to shut up, do my thing and evacuate from the hostile territory. “Did you think about my offer? Or you're still trying to play hard to get?”

 

I completely ignored the two, focusing my gaze on the pretty disoriented Danish boy, who accused me of sexual harassment hours ago. Sexual harassment? This was fun. But I guess he didn't really see it that way, as he turned his head to look at the boss – obviously expecting him to carry the whole situation. Okay, so that was what I thought it would be: these guys are not supposed to do anything, except for talking bullshit. The mummy is here to manage the business.

 

“What did I tell you before?”

 

And I turned my eyes to look at the boss. I smiled with a corner of my lips and shrugged my shoulders. “I don't really remember. Must have been complete crap.”

 

“Really? So maybe you would like a small reminder,” and then, before I managed to reply, he grabbed me by the shoulders and angrily pushed against the verge of the table. I felt the wood painfully nudging at my lower back, and couple of tools pressed against my skin. In the back of my head I was thankful there was nothing extremely sharp placed there, so I still had my body in one piece.

 

I think he expected now that I bow down, say I'm sorry, and that I won't ever do this again. Instead I offered him a full teeth smile, still leaning against the table, wondering what's his next move was going to be about. He was standing in front of me, his fingers digging into my arm's skin. He was now angry, really angry. Lips pursed, jaw strong and clenched. Eyes focused on me. He was the boss andthis “title” came with few characteristics none of them made me fear him. Try to deprive someone of their long established respect and then see what happens.

 

“What was this supposed to remind me of?”

 

His breath short. Nicklas standing behind him. The shed now almost empty, I suspected, because if there was audience, the boss reaction would be different. And, as he didn't reply to my question, I continued, “that I like other boys touching me? Because I do,” his gaze wandering all over my face, disbelieve somewhere in the back of his dark colored eyes, “and you're fitting perfectly into my preferences,” and this, this was supposed to be enough. And it was, because in no time, I felt his fist strong against my cheek.

 

It does hurt, but it's just milliseconds. Your head pops onto the other side, your eyes roll inside of your skull, and for some moments you don't see, you don't hear anything. It may feel like it lasts an eternity, but it's just couple of seconds. And couple of seconds until another punch comes around, and this, this one hurts a little more. I moved steps further, to bring my composure back, to have some time to breath. I knew he would hit me once again, but the minute his arm stretched I grabbed at his wrist, and twisted it with a one, almost professional move. It was painful, but not as painful as a straight punch in the face. Yet, this move's major advantage was that it gave you quite few seconds to come up with a next series of attacks. I knew the prolonging ones well, because when it's you against few others, you do need time. This moment though, it was me against him, no one else involved. And once his head was up, and both of his hands free, I knew it was the time to properly attack. So I gave him my strongest, most furious, most angry hit. And you need to know that once you start, it gets pretty addictive. Seeing your enemy in pain. Disarmed. Free to your torture. So I hit his face one more time, and then the other, until he found all the leftovers of strength he had and just nearly jump onto me, pushing me hard onto the table. I wanted to duck, and preserve my face from getting another punch, but I wasn't quick enough, and I didn't bent low enough, and his elbow just struck with full force against my temple. Oh this. This hurt. A complete, full seconds black out from reality. I slowly straightened my back, trying to fix my blurry vision. Blood. I felt it streaming down my cheek. But that didn't stop me. And when I finally saw him clearly, about a meter and a half away from me, breathing hard and probably trying to calm his guts, I moved kinda unsteadily forward, and it took me a single moment of his unconsciousness to punch him one last time. Not in the face though, somewhere in the middle of his torso. Ribs, I guess. It must have been the ribs, because he staggered, lost balance and fell down. Down on his knees, and when wanting to get up, I kicked him in the arms, so he fell onto the ground again. And I didn't want to stop, I really didn't, but something, or rather someone was now holding me from the back. Arms strong around my torso. And despite these heavy clenches around my body, I still was daring forward. Mumbling something in Spanish, spitting half saliva, half blood. I wanted to tell Nicklas to get the fuck out, to stop touching me, but these words didn't escape my mouth, because I saw Nicklas in front, not against my back. He was now by his friend, trying to get him up.

 

“You're fucking crazy,” Bendtner shouted at me, not even looking me in the eyes, because he has done all in his might to get his friend up and going. He held him by the arms and then slowly, slowly lift him up. The boss was mumbling something in Danish. His eyes looking at me, but so mindlessly I was sure he didn't see me. Nicklas helped carrying him out of the shed, and once they both disappeared, the person holding me finally gave up. When now back on my own feet, I turned around and I saw Daniel. I didn't really see him fully, because the blood kept pouring down from the temple. I needed something I could lean against. So I made few steps towards the wooden desk, breathing loudly. He stood next to me. Silent. He didn't move. He just stood there. And then, as some time passed and I was still against the desk, he walked out of the shed. Just disappeared and I was left alone. I closed my eyes, waiting. Waiting for the pressure to lower. For my hands to stop shaking. For the anger to vanish. My head pumping with a loud, noisy pain. But all around it was silent. I pushed myself from the desk and I made my way out of the shed. Our field empty. No car. Nothing. Fucking great I had to walk about seven kilometers to get to the village. Obviously these fucking idiots were waiting for Nicklas and the boss, and once these two made their way out of here, the car no longer had to wait for anyone else. Whatever. It didn't matter now. It really didn't matter. I sat on the wooden bench. Once I feel better, I'll go home. And whether that will be in an hour, two, or five – who cared?

 

Then, suddenly, I saw Daniel walking out of the wooden house of our supervisor. With something in his hands I didn't see well from this spot. But once he got closer enough, I noticed his completely emotionless expression.

 

“You can go home,” I said, while he stood in front, so tall, well-composed. Motionless. “I really don't need this, and I don't need you to –,”

 

And then he closed my mouth with his cold hand. I swallowed the last bits of words I wanted to say, and I just stared at him, half in awe, half in I have no idea what, I was just disoriented, in pain, in chaos. And his hand was still against my lips, as if he would be saying, _enough Fernando, enough of all those words, enough of it all._ And when I decided to lose the warrior's shield, his hand let go. Then I felt this old, wet and cold rag pressed against my forehead, and then the temple, and I believe I let out some sort of moan, because he stopped touching my face with the material for a moment. Then started all over again. I stared at his face, but his eyes looked everywhere except for mine's. He touched my skin with this gentleness. With care. So precisely and with the type of movement, as if he would be doing it for a twentieth time. Still not looking into my eyes.

 

“Okay, really, I'm fine, I'm super good,” I quickly stood up, wanting to show him how fast I can recover, and how much of a no biggie it was to me, and then as I was standing, everything started spinning way, way, way too fast, and his arms practically sat me down again. “Hey,” I said with an enforced anger, but obviously failed half the way. “I'm really fine.”

 

And then he put the rag next to me on the bench, and would take something from the back of his trousers pocket. Like a little piece of paper and a pen. He wrote something quickly and handed it to me.

 

_You never stop talking, do you?_

 

I started laughing, but then my swollen face, and the probably already bruised cheeks, and hundred percent sure cut temple, all protested towards such a nervous mussels move, so I shut up. I had to.

 

He sat next to me on a bench, and he didn't do anything else. He didn't move towards me, or further apart from me. He didn't try to touch me. He just sat, staring in front, and that I was sure of, cause I've seen his profile with a corner of my eye. It felt like a movie scene. From some indie, oh-so-different, so-no-mainstream, low-on-cash movie. The nature surroundings were astonishing, if you give it a second glance. And then the characters, he and I, both from completely different worlds suddenly finding a connecting bond. This piece of paper I was now holding in my hands and squeezing its already folded corners. His awfully ugly handwriting. Me: bruised, battered, high on adrenaline, low on any feelings of remorse. This little sentence. And the question mark as a closure point. _You never stop talking, do you?_ Now it echoed in my head, and I wondered how would it sound if he said it out loud. But it didn't really matter, because he was sitting so close. And the feeling of his hand pressed against my lips: cold, and smelling like wood, was lingering in my system like an alcohol aftertaste. Actually, much better than that.

 

“So, do you as well think I'm crazy?”

 

And I finally moved my head to look at his face. He smiled taking the paper out of my hands. And once he gave it back to me, it said:

 

_An interesting kind of crazy._

 

A quite _oh_ escaped my lips, I believe, as I kept staring at the letters. I drove my eyes up, wishing there was still an eye-contact between us, but he already looked away. Something like a smirk playing on his lips. And I nodded my head in disbelieve. This **whole** situation that just happened: the fight, him, another stream of blood going down my face, now less more dramatically. I put the rag cloth against the temple and I breathed out. I must have looked terribly, and I kinda felt like that as well, but the smile was on my lips. First step done. I made him talk. Well, in a different way than people usually do talk, but normal is not a word I go with.

 

“How are we going to get to the village?”

 

And instead of taking the paper again out of my hands, he stood up, walked in direction of a wooden house, disappeared behind it, and then got back to me with a bicycle.

 

“Fine, that's one. Your plan is good, but not good enough.”

 

And he again nodded his head, and gestured with his hand towards the top tube. The minute I realized what he was 'talking' about, I said, “no fucking way.”

 

He sat on the bicycle and he gave me that expectant look. “No, honestly, I already made my mind. I'm not gonna go like eight kilometers sitting on a top tube of a bike. No.”

 

His head popped backwards, and his mouth was open, and I suspect it was how he laughed truly, like you know, when something really funny happens. And the only thing that was abnormal was that when you usually see people like that, there is their hysterical laugh as a proof. He just had his mouth open, and the corner of his lips high, and there was the arms movement. And he really was laughing. This motherfucker.

 

“I don't understand what is so funny,” I said, irritated, and I stood up, a little bit slower than before. But as I got my balance right, I started walking. With the cloth pressed to my swollen face. I walked past him. And I just kept walking like that, slowly, till I reached the path leading to the road. And suddenly I heard someone cycling after me.

 

“Are you following me now?”

 

And he slowed down to suit my pace, side-glancing onto the road, then at me. Smiling stupidly. God, if it wasn't for how cute, hot, adorable, and sexy he looked while smiling I would probably push him down from that bike, but I guess, I should learn to contain my anger and irritation better.

 

“And what, you're going to drive next to me, this slowly, for all the kilometers back to the village?”

 

I looked at him and he nodded. _Yes,_ this nod meant. “Fine,” I said, still irritated. I didn't know why I was irritated, especially when it wasn't the kind of normal irritation I used to show to the world. Maybe he thought it was adorable, or silly, because every time I looked at him, not this flauntingly, but like _a bit_ , he was smiling. Curving his lips into that smirk-kind-of-a-full-smile, and add his freckled cheeks to that, and well sculpted bone structure, and my irritation was slowly fading away, until I finally stopped.

 

“Fine, I'll sit on this,” I made my way over to the bike, and I sat on the top tube, holding my legs up above the road. I was between his arms, praying to the gods of heaven to let me get home in one piece. Paradox, I would call that. I have no fear towards getting my face crushed by someone's hands, and I do all share of reckless, but letting someone drive me on a bike like that not that it terrifies me, but does slightly nudge at my comfort zone.

 

“What if we loose balance, fall, and the car coming from the front will just run over us?”

 

My left eye moved a bit to see his reaction and obviously, it was a smile. He was probably laughing on the inside at how completely fixated I was about the whole bike thing to the point where I didn't even want to move my head, to not cause any loss of balance.

 

He smelled good. Damn, damn, damn good. Like a mixture of something very individual, probably his skin and sweat, and then the smell of fresh grass and trees and wood. And maybe a bit of cologne. But like a small hint, like I had to lower my head and block all other senses to feel something not entirely natural. This smell made me want to rip his clothes off, but thank God for the last bits of sanity I had, because if I would move, and then dare to rip the clothes off, we would probably be dead. Or a bit bruised.

 

I closed my eyes and I let the gentle breeze brush over my body. Wasn't it how summer should look like? Bike trips, the nature, smell of fresh fruits, and wood, and the gentle breezes and the not overwhelming temperature of a sunny day, and then this kind of a summer love, or infatuation, or just please have sex with me, I don't know. I felt like I was living every second. Like the painful bruises, and the cut skin, and the blood, and the happiness, and smiles, and how he smiled, and maybe all that equaled gave the perfect equation. Maybe in this moment, this afternoon, exhausted and in pain, but also terribly happy, and terribly not knowing what I was really doing, maybe this means to really live.

 

Finally, when I opened my eyes and I noticed the first delicate shapes of the village, I realized I wasn't so carefully holding onto the bike frame. The unknown fear of loosing balance, whether it would be the one keeping us moving steadily forward, or the balance I used to make for myself, to feel free and feel happy, the fear was gone. Maybe for a short period of time. Maybe only when I was with him. But it was gone.

 

“Go straight the main street, then at the end turn left,” I said, and it took us less than ten minutes to get to my grandma's house.

 

He stopped in front and I got off the top tube. I turned to look at him and I smiled, “thanks,” I blurted out, and this word felt odd leaving my lips, because I rarely use it.

 

We stood there, in front of the house, looking at each other with no shame. And I was kind of surprised, and glad to see, he was one of the few people, who could keep up with that. “Why do you keep staring at me?”

 

And he smiled. I thought I won this one, because how could he now defend himself? But he was smart, smarter than I expected him to be, and he reached to my pocket, God, so close to my cock it was nearly heartbreaking, and he took out the used paper. Well, kind of easy if you think about it, because the pen was sticking out, and okay, I should probably stop talking in my head now. He wrote something, and handed it to me again.

 

 _It is always you staring at me._  

 

And I opened my mouth to protest, but before I knew, he pressed his hand against my lips. That was fucking unfair, hey, again, but God, his skin. Maybe if I could lick it now a little, or bite at it, or I don't know, I just wanna make out with this guy so badly. Now. Now. Now. Tonight. All the time. And before I had a chance to do something, he took his hand, shot me another stare, and then in no time, drove down the street. No fucking kiss goodbye? I should get angry, assuming it could be our third date, or fourth: the bonfire, the lake, and today's afterwork situation – and at that stage I used to already be bored with my trophy, wanting and looking for a new one, but with him? I didn't even see his boxers, not even talking about the cock.

I stared for a little at the empty road, and then turned and made my way to the house. I gently opened the door, funny how in the village they don't bother to close a single thing, and I was so utterly fucking glad to see no one was home so I didn't have to explain why my face is swollen, bruised and blood-stained and why on top of that I'm grinning like an idiot, and why again, I had to do something like _that_.

Instead, I took the shoes off and went upstairs heading to the bathroom where I wanted to take a very refreshing shower and cover up all the evidences saying I was drowning in trouble for a countless time again in my life.

 


	6. 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really know what else to say, other than I hope you still enjoy this little thing.
> 
> Dedicated to meilleurequipe. Just because.

 

 

 

In Madrid, whenever the alarm clock would go off, I would roll on the other side, duck my head underneath the pillow, and pretend this sound – this sound coming straight all the way from hell – just didn't reach the right dimension of my reality. But then, as I would force my eyelids to roll open, the world unfolding in front was something worth waking up to. The capital city of Spain peeking through the massive, meters long windows of my bedroom. All white with a pint of royal silver being a main theme of the awfully expensive interior design in our penthouse apartment. (Juergen's apartment). It was cold, and distant, but so inappropriately innocent at the same time. I felt brutally exposed when faced with white. Like it brought out all of my sins in an instant. White was angelic, pure, virginal. And I was none of that.

 

But nowadays when the alarm clock went off around five in the morning, and I would reluctantly moan, and turn on the other side, there was no Madrid view that I could roll my eyes open to. There was no white pristine. No coldness. No silver. Just the unfamiliar feeling of warmth, and darkness. And my inner demons felt at ease. Hiding in the dusty corners, unwilling to bare their features. Here I was safe. But not for too long, because the brightness of the dawn would soon reveal itself to the world. To my world as well.

 

Though, darkness was a bit too overwhelming at times. Too scary. Dawn, on the contrary, wasn't scary at all. It was like the first breath you took, when you stayed under the water for too long. Desperate and needy, but liberating. Dawn freed you from the demons of the night, but pushed you right into the ugliness of the morning. The world around you displayed through crystal clear lenses. With all its flaws, and imperfections. And everything was so fresh, the air was fresh. So when it filled your lungs it gave you the sense of newness. You could start anew, you could start better. But would you?

 

Yet, I didn't ask myself that question when I was sipping on a morning coffee. Black, strong, demanding. Have me straight like that, or don't have me at all. Still, coffee didn't really wake me up. Time insanely ticking away always did, but today's morning I owed it all to the pain. My skull was exploding, my vision bad. Bruises dark shade of violet. Was that called bravery? Me wanting to go to work today, the day after the fight. Or was it plain stupid? Like curving your head willingly, when they sharp the axe before beheading you? I could stay home. I should stay home. But I wouldn't.

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

I quickly turned around, all surprised, even a bit scared for few split seconds, but then I saw my mom, a gaze not clear, expression puzzled. Eyes wandering.

 

“Mom, I leave for work soon,” I replied, tone of voice casual, a bit sleepy still, but casual.

 

She came over, leaned with her hip against the counter, she would grab at my chin and turn my face, so I was now looking straight into her eyes.

 

“What happened to your face?”

 

I sighed heavily before replying. What happened? Too much for her to ever slightly grasp the meaning of each shade marking the skin. “Nothing,” so I answered, trying to brush it off. I turned my face, now focusing on preparing the sandwich. But she didn't give up so easily.

 

“You call this nothing?”

 

It may seem as if she's angry, but in reality she isn't. She's half terrified, half drunk. That's what she is. And, as every mother in such moment, probably also irritated with her inability to protect me. I preferred her passed out on a couch, rather than this dramatic. I looked worse many times before, mind that. But I highly doubted she remembered. Always too sedated from her pain, to ever notice mine.

 

“Yes mom, I call this nothing,” I said back. A bit too fast, because it sounded pressured. Forced. Angry.

 

“Don't talk to me like that, Fernando,” she didn't sound furious, she didn't sound taken aback. She sounded, as she would be begging. So pleadingly. So desperately.

 

“Just go to sleep, mom,” I gave her a side-glance, and I noticed her now, finally, irritated expression. Slightly, but it was. My mom knew when I stopped talking bullshit, and started talking alcohol. And her abuse of such substance. Which all was pretty typical for someone, who had a problem with it. And my mother, again quite typically, refused to admit she had one.

 

Normally she would wave her hand dismissively at me, as if saying I was still too young, too stupid, too narrow-minded, too full of incapabilities to understand what she was going through. And maybe I was, maybe I really was, and so, that way, at some point I stopped caring. I stopped hiding the bottles. I stopped saying she smelled vodka, whiskey, gin, or all that altogether. Instead, I would gently put a blanket over her body, or I would drag her up the stairs. Or I would nod my head, when she would ask if I can make something up for Juergen. And I would do that. Many times when I would go out, just with a purpose to act like a whore, she would cover me up too. And she perfectly well knew I was fourteen and sucking cock. But if she wanted to have alcohol as her companion, she had to accept the reality in which I spent nights on my knees, just because I wanted to.

 

But please, don't think about my mom as she would be some sort of ill-mannered lady, sleeping on the corners, and throwing up underneath her dirty clothing. Don't classify my mom as the street alcoholic, because she wasn't one. My mom was a gorgeous woman. A classy one. She would wear Dior on Sundays, jog in the morning, talk fluent Spanish (of course), English, and French. My mom would caress my face, when I was a little boy, always way too afraid to sleep on my own. And she would gently blow on my knees, whenever I would hit the ground as a five year old. My mom would tell me I was the greatest athlete, even when at times I was far from that. My mom would wink at me, and whisper I'm too beautiful to be true. And too angelic, to ever do bad. My mom was my mom and she could beat the living shit out of my guts and I would still love her just as much.

 

Yet my mom, despite all her gorgeous ways, was also very troubled. Quick-tempered. Happy, then depressed. Laughing, then crying. Staying calm, going furious. She would be loving, and hating. Caring, and then ignoring. She could go up into my room, sit on the verge on my bed, and wake me up from sleep, by delicately caressing my cheek. I would become extremely aware in seconds, staying entirely silent, and she would say things, all sorts of different things. _Fernando, you're just like him,_ she would make a pause, sob, then continue, _it's the biggest blessing, and the biggest curse_. And when saying him, she would mean my dad. He died when I was something like three years old. They killed him for money. Unpaid money, obviously. My dad was doing things for mafia. An on and off business thing he liked to get involved in, because the cash came flowing quickly, and the job was crazy enough to stimulate his cravings for adrenaline. And as much as we weren't this alike when it came to looks, because I got the beauty from my mom, I got the mental fucked-upness probably from him. Well, my mom surely wasn't entirely sane as well, but she was all drama, all emotions bottled up, whereas me, I was the calculated insanity. I did things, many things, because life as it was, was never enough for me. I was on a constant lookout for a total fulfillment. With an amount of risk already estimated as notorious, and perpetual. Mandatory for me to survive.

 

“I love you, you know,” she stood behind me, now hugging dearly onto my back. “You are always going to be my little angel,” side of her face was now glued to my nape, she would start breathing louder, as if falling asleep. “Please, take care of yourself, Nando,” a faint, leather kiss on my nape's skin, and she was asleep. Already. I turned to grab her waist, and enfold her arm around my neck. I would slowly, very, very slowly walk her to the sofa, and I would do the usual. Put the blanket over her body, take the empty glass of wine from the table, and bring it back to the kitchen. I would wash it. Kill the evidence. Then finish my sandwich, sip for few more minutes on my coffee, and then head for the door, switching off the light.

 

The dawn was exactly as I portrayed it before. Refreshing. Exposing. Ugly. The air was fresh, so fresh, that when I breathed in, it felt like it had sharp edges delicately cutting through my lungs. And the village was silent. I believe no one from the city is able to discover this kind of motionless silence, until they move to the village. Nothing makes a sound. All dead. Everything. It has its kind of danger, especially when you're constantly faced with all sorts of city noises. The roar of ambulance, the harsh swish of tires, people chattering. The world continually moving forward. Always going somewhere. Heading onto the unknown directions. Trying to make a purpose out of each voyage. The village, on the other hand, it didn't bear any bullshit. No fake purposes, no making meaning out of something meaningless. The village was silent, because it didn't have to be loud. It didn't have to pretend. And it was so dangerous, because it made you feel, as you didn't have to pretend as well. But then, when you're not pretending, what are you left with? Yourself. And that is dangerous.

 

I saw the pick-up car right in the same spot, as each day before. The only different thing was that it looked oddly abandoned. Usually it was already filled with guys, or half of them standing by the car, chatting, whispering, doing God knows what, at this fucking hour. Today, there was no one. For a short moment I thought it was some kind of a set-up, a hide & seek, and I was the target. Track. Then shot. And I looked around, precociously, but still, no one. I came closer to the car, gently touching its side with my hand, as if making sure it was all real, and not illusional.

 

“Morning,” I heard behind my ear, and I quickly turned around. Our boss. The real one. The one, who drove us both ways, and supervised the crowd. The same grumpy expression, the same kind of judgment in his watery eyes. I nodded my head.

 

“Is it only me today?”

 

And he hummed in response. But then, as my stare didn't loose on intensity, and I demanded a real answer, as strongly as always, he forced himself to look at me, and said.

 

“I was told what happened yesterday. You provoked them, encouraged, and then caused the fight. Lucas right arm is broken. His parents had to drove him to the hospital yesterday's evening. So, as he is incapable of working, you will be responsible for his share of duties from now on as well. But I decided that the bully cannot run away from the consequences of such behavior.”

 

I let out a pitiful laugh. “And I'm the bully here?”

 

He gave me that judgmental look; mirroring my body from the toes, up till the split-ends of my blonde hair.

 

“Enough with the discussion. You get on the car, or you loose the job. Your choice.”

 

And as much as I wanted to turn around, walk back home, go to sleep, and screw the whole drama, I could not. I had my proudness, and my rules, as twisted as they were, but still these were some sort of principles. Values. They see a one, little slip in your behavior, and you'd be damned forever. So I kept my head high, and offered him a sweet, little, devilish smile. So my face was swollen, so I was the bully. But I had no fear, and my working _buddies_ had. Good, they should be afraid. What happened yesterday was just a beginning. If they weren't to stop, I wouldn't stop either. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.

 

“Then what are we still doing here?”

 

He suddenly straightened his back, taken by surprise with my emphatic tone of voice. He made a turn, and then disappeared in the front cabin, behind the steering wheel. I made my way to the back. Sat comfortably with all the free space surrounding me. It was cold, windy, and bright. And I was just hoping for the rain to never come down falling, or else I would freeze to death.

 

Immediately I started thinking about Daniel and how infinitely better it would be if he would be going on the car with us in the mornings. But he never did, as he lived in the far end of the village, the place almost empty, almost abandoned as Nicklas once called it. He always came on the bike, and for few longer minutes, I sat there, on the back of the pickup truck, with my eyes closed, remembering the yesterday's ride home. And honestly, there was nothing wrong, or strange with the way I felt. So I wanted his presence, just as bad as I wanted his body. And I admitted he had a beautiful smile, absolutely adorable freckles, and the kind of hair I imagined constantly pulling at. And in the last twenty-four hours I made up a countless number of scenario's in which our lips crush, my tongue discovers all the insides of his mouth, and my hands grab at his shirt, pressing against the tough torso. But I've done this in my life oh so many times before. I was completely vulnerable to the stages of fascination, and I always went through them the same way. First, utter obsession. Then came the chase. And once the chase was finished, and the trophy held high above my head, I would forget about ever wanting it so badly. Boys were beautiful creatures, and I couldn't help, but fall in love with them. A little bit, and then all at once. Insanely fast. Only to fall out of love even faster. And I was quite sure it wasn't love, but I liked to call it that way, because it was probably the closest to love I have ever gotten.

 

Once the familiar view of the greenish field welcomed us, I knew it was time to get out of my head for a little. Get down to the business. Plan. Then, execute. My boss was all silence, and quiet murmuring. Few intrusive glances, couple of disdainful gestures, and I was left alone. Me, myself, and the axe. We made a terribly successful team. Not that we were good friends, no, not at all, but we have somehow find a way to coexist. There comes a point, I realized, that you stop counting the pieces. The cuts. You stop being so precise, if you ever were to begin with. This whole repetitiveness of moves does something quite unclear to your feelings. They vanish. My hatred for this job just wasn't in the usual place, and if it was, it got replaced. With ignorance. I was here, because I had to be. Well, in reality, I didn't have to be. I'm the kind of a person, that if I don't want to be somewhere, ninety-seven percent of times, I'm just not there. But this situation was different. I had to be here for many outer reasons. And inner too. My pride, my principles, my yearning for Daniel, my flair for trouble. All combined brought me to that exact spot, and at some point, bullshitting about it was just plain stupid. I agreed to terms and conditions, I kind of knew what I was getting myself into. There was no coming back now.

 

Though, no sight of Daniel, and even, no sight of anyone else here made it a bit more difficult than it usually was. People were a great distraction. And I used them for all sorts of games. Despite me having a vivid life, I had a vivid one in my head as well. I guess, it has something to do with my inner craziness, the way I'm often more here, with myself, than with anyone else. And if it seems I'm with people, I'm still here with myself too. I judge and I think constantly. I play logistic games, I play puzzles, I make scenarios. I have each person figured out, and not even a single of their moves goes unseen. One time Juergen sent me to a certain diagnostic center, with all of the psychologists and psychiatrists, because he suspected I might be a sociopath. Now, don't get scared, it is not as bad is it sounds. I say a sociopath, and you probably are already thinking about the most disgusting murderers in human history. But, as research states, there are many sociopaths in our society, who lead seemingly normal life. Who associate. Who never killed, raped, or ate anyone alive. Yet, they thought about it. And associating was hell of a difficult journey they had to endure. Starting from a scratch. But I need to say, out of all Juergen's accusations, this one was my favorite. And not because it was complete bollocks, but because it was somewhat true. I do evince some sort of sociopathic behavior. Almost non-existing feeling of remorse. Or shame. Or empathy. Highly developed manipulative skills. Lack of understanding towards people emotional choices, or just them being simply emotional. Well, I do consider myself quite an emotional person. Driven. But _they_ told me that I'm driven not in a human way. I'm more like an animal. And maybe it is true. Then again, maybe it is not. But what if we would believe anything unravelling our complicated nature? Our entire lives we seek, we strive, we desperately try to find information why we behave the way we do, or why we feel the things we feel. Now you're given a full explanation. Mr Torres, you're a sociopath. I take that instead of searching all my life why I am so utterly fucked up. But all in all, it turned out I'm not a sociopath, and Juergen was a bit disappointed for another month, until he came back to his old thinking. That if I'm not a sociopath, I must be the devil. Unfortunately, they still don't have a test on that in the diagnostic center, so nothing can be confirmed. And that way, nothing can be dismissed either.

 

I decided to skip the break, and keep on working with the same furious pace. Hoping I would be able to finish earlier, and then drown in the overwhelming joy of having two days of complete freedom. And if I wouldn't be seeing Daniel tonight at the usual Friday bonfire, then I would be surely seeing him Sunday in church. It really was an attraction, as Nicklas once said. Especially for me, and my twisted mind. I looked around the people, and I kept wondering what their sins were, and if they ever felt bad about them. What kind of secrets did their souls hold? I knew the Agger family definitely had some, but it looked like the entire village was forbidden to say a word. And I just needed to know why. Also, the other thing I needed to do was to sleep with the youngest son, or at least, rub against him, but with how much of a motherfucking virgin he was, I bet that first I'll unfold the Agger's mystery, rather than his ass.

 

Wait, was he really a virgin?

 

Oh my.

 

“Fernando,” I heard someone shouting, and I turned around, putting down the wheelbarrow. Now that no one else was here, I was the one chopping the wood, and then carrying it down to the other spot. The person calling me caught me right by the verge of the high trees. I squinted my eyes, realizing that the figure slowly walking up to me was no one else, but Nicklas.

 

“Thank God you're still here,” I heard him saying, as he came close to me, standing only few steps away. “I was worried I won't catch you before the afternoon,” he said.

 

“You were worried?” I let out something like a parched laugh.

 

“Alright, I know what you're thinking,” his voice sounded disappointed, and his eyes apparently found it difficult to look straight into mine's.

 

“No, trust me, you don't know what I'm thinking, and believe me, it is best if it stays that way,” I smiled, and turned around to grab at the barrow.

 

“Wait, Fernando, let me explain, alright?”

 

I rolled my eyes, and then, what felt like a longest minute, I slowly turned to face him. My boss lurked out of his small shed, but once noticing Nicklas, he smiled and waved at us. He was probably thinking the Dane came around to kill me, and then drag my dead body to the woods. And that was why he appeared to be so happy.

 

“In all seriousness, Nick. I don't need your explanation. I know what's going around. You can't be friends with me in public, and as much as I despise this kind of behavior, I get it.”

 

“Why the fuck did you have to do this yesterday?”

 

“I don't know,” I shrugged my shoulders. “I wasn't really thinking ahead.”

 

“You're so fucking crazy, you know that?”

 

“I consider it to be much better being crazy, than being a lousy ass coward. Because calling you a pussy would be a terrible offense to a women's genitalia, and more, women in general.”

 

“Oh, and you're a feminist too,” he added, now a bit more sharply.

 

I smiled. “At least you make decent come-backs. Whatever. What do you want?”

 

He walked to a nearest bench, and sat down. I followed him. “Don't come to the bonfire tonight.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Guys planned a revenge. Best case you'll have your arms or legs broken. Maybe both. They know you swim, and they'll do anything to make sure you won't be able to in next months.”

 

I was now quickly calculating the level of risk. Then, as some moments of silence passed, I turned my face to his side, and I asked, “Daniel is going to be there?”

 

“Oh God!” he exclaimed, hands being thrown up in the air. “I'm telling you this, and you're still asking about this fucking weirdo?”

 

Maybe Nicklas also knows whether Daniel is a virgin. Should I ask?

 

“Also, I have a one little question–“

 

“No, no more fucking questions about Agger. Get your mind right. He's so not fucking worth it, Fernando.”

 

“And exactly how do you know this?”

 

“Think about it, okay? You're here two months only, and then you get back to Madrid. You probably won't ever see Daniel again if you make it to the Olympics team.”

 

“But I won't. There is no team in Madrid that I can join. And definitely no pre-Olympics team.”

 

“Aren't you a last year gold medalist in junior European championsh–“

 

“Nick, I slept with my trainer,” and as these words left my throat, I noticed Nicklas mouth drop. Eyes wide open.

 

“You what?”

 

“Jesus, you heard me. I fucked my trainer. Well, theoretically speaking, he fucked me, but–“

 

“Oh God, stop,” he rolled his eyes. “How could you be so stupid to sleep with your couch when you're training to be on the Olympics team?”

 

Juergen asked me that question about thousand and two times.

 

“Well, I did, alright? Shit happens. Now, I should forget about swimming, and–“

 

“And what? Chase after some guy? Let me remind you, he doesn't speak. It's not like you can build a relationship with–“

 

“Hey! I don't want a relationship, Christ, I just want to have sex with him couple of times and that's it.”

 

“You don't even know whether he's gay,” he tried sounding serious.

 

“I'm eighty-eight percent sure that he is, okay?”

 

“What about these other twelve percent?”

 

“Bisexual.”

 

“Oh,” Nicklas lips stayed shaped as a beautiful 'O' making his face expression a constant shade of disbelieve. “You bastard,” he smiled after some time, “in any case you could still be his choice.”

 

“I know,” I replied with a large smile playing on my lips, “God is a genius.”

 

“But still. Is there really nothing you can do about the swimming?”

 

I shrugged my shoulders. “I don't know. I don't feel like thinking about it.”

 

“Why? This was your entire life. You've been already swimming when I met you. And not that you wasted, but come on, half your life you spent in water. You deserve some freaking reward for that.”

 

I chuckled. Quite ironically. “It doesn't work like that, Nick.”

 

This time it was him shrugging his shoulders. “Whatever,” he said, “just don't quit Fernando.”

 

The last sentence echoed in my head, despite Nicklas saying something completely different now. I wasn't listening to him. I looked at the greenish view in front, but I was far from here. In my head it was four in the morning and the pool was empty. Water still. My torso naked. Lower part of my body covered with tight, almost spandex-like pants. Early trainings deprived you of soul. That's what I always said. Half of the city is still vast asleep, and you stretch, minutes before jumping inside the pool. Muscles still stiff from yesterday. A thousand of little voices in your head. Saying you can't. And that it is pointless. You're not as good as many others out there. You're far behind from those on the American team, or German team, or French team. American team is titan. It's four am and you keep wondering. But in reality it's not you against all superstars from other countries. It's you against you. Always. You're your biggest opponent. Your loudest and most strict critique. And if you manage to shut the voices, and just jump inside. It just takes a jump. Then you're a step ahead. A step ahead from those, who didn't make that jump. Who threw the towel back in the locker room, and never made it to the training.

 

“Are you even listening to me?”

 

“Hardly,” I replied.

 

“I hope this time it wasn't Agger you were thinking about,” he said expectantly, but I didn't answer. “Listen, I'm taking you home.”

 

“What?”

 

“Yeah, you heard me. I need to make sure you don't stop by the bonfire. I already told our boss I'm taking you now. He kinda knows about the set-up, so he agreed to let you go earlier. He has no idea we're friends.”

 

“Are we?” I asked, eyebrows shot up in a questioning manner. Nicklas was already standing up, waiting for me to follow. But I awaited his response. Curious what this shithead will come up with. Not that it would change anything I thought about him earlier on, but still.

 

“I wouldn't be here now, if I wouldn't consider you a friend. Yet that doesn't change a fact I still think you're crazy.”

 

I stood up, smiling. “Good. I still think you're a lame coward.”

 

"Playing a feminist, Torres?”

 

"I'm just being politically correct.”

 

He was smiling. “That must be a first.”

 

I let out an honest laugh. “Yeah, probably.”

 

I didn't even bother putting things to the shed next to the house. If my boss was on to set me up, then I didn't give a fuck about grand gestures.

 

We got inside of the old car, and I comfortably settled on a passenger seat. Nicklas put some track on and the silence was interrupted with the loud noises of some indie rock music. As Bendtner didn't say a word more, I pressed my head against the window and I shut my eyes. The cold texture of glass cooling the hotness of my bruised face. And even that we didn't talk, those eight kilometers back to the village went by extremely quickly.

 

Once he parked by the grandma's house, and the engine stopped roaring, we both looked at each other.

 

“Just don't go to the bonfire.”

 

I smiled.

 

"Seriously, Fernando.”

 

I kept smiling.

 

"Have a good weekend, Nick,” I said, and then turned, and got out of the car.

 

I thought he was going to shout something through the opened window, but as I looked around, Nicklas was staring back at me, his glare stubborn, and strong. He didn't say anything more, and I walked inside the house, shutting the door. I didn't even hear him driving away, but I highly doubted he'll be standing by the house the whole night. Come on.

 

“Fernando, darling, you're early!”

 

Grandma's surprised voice welcomed me in the passage, as I was taking the shoes and the jacket off. I replied by giving her a gentle, though a bit tired smile, and then I moved in direction of kitchen.

 

“Yeah,” I said, sitting by the large table. “I finished earlier today.”

 

“Good, it's Friday! What do you want to eat?”

 

“Nothing, really. Just if you can make me some tea, please?

 

“Sure,” she smiled, and started walking around. ”Your face looks a bit better today. Still, your right side is very much bruised, and it doesn't look good, but definitely better than yesterday.”

 

“Enough talking about me,” I interrupted with a charming smile. “What did you do today?”

 

“Oh, darling, not much. The usual. I got up early. Had a quick breakfast, and went out grocery shopping. I wanted to make a Spanish dish for dinner. The one your mum told me about. But then, on my way back from the shop, I bumped into a friend of mine, and we talked for a little. You know, old woman gossip. Apparently we're going to have a new priest,” she said, walking up to the table and handing me a big mug with tea. I loved how there was no pretentiousness in this house. No white. No silver. No pretending. Everything so warm, and kind, and even if it had that Scandinavian minimalism, it was still sort of _lovable_. Grandma sat in front of me, sipping on her tea as well. “This new priest, wait, what was his name? I don't remember. God, I'm old. I'm sure though he was English.”

 

“English?”

 

Here? In Denmark? I mean, Copenhagen, this I understand. But here?

 

“Yes, English, they keep sending them. Every year someone new. Last year they sent us an Italian priest,” she chuckled whole-heartedly over her mug, “it was all chaos, drama, loud music, and spaghetti.”

 

I smiled. Not really because of what she said, but just seeing her so amused. So happy. It kinda made me happy too.

 

“But why are they sending them? Who's sending them?”

 

“Oh, right, I still didn't tell you. There is this small center twenty kilometers away. Not for juvenile criminals, as many here like to call that, but you know, a difficult youth. Kids like, hmm–“

 

"Like me?” I finished her sentence, curving my lips into a full-teeth smile. I took a large sip of tea, waiting for her to answer.

 

“Well, maybe. Kind of. But you're not difficult, Fernando. You're just different.”

 

I nodded my head, and something like a quick murmur escaped my lips. Yeah. Right. I wish everyone saw me the way she did. Really. It would make my life trouble-less.

 

“So,” she continued, as I was busy drinking my tea. “This center is quite famous. A lot of international kids. Therefore the staff is quite international too. Psychologists, teachers, priests. But it's not a fancy place, no, not at all. It's a tiny village. I don't think anyone lives there anymore. It's just that center. Very calm. Quiet. It's a nice place, but you know, kind of lifeless. The rumor says that the priests that are being sent there are often those, who've done something quite out of line, back in their country. Like the Italian priest, for example. This friend of mine said back in Italy Maurizio had two kids, and a bunch of flings.”

 

“He was Italian,” I replied. Smiling. "This justifies everything.”

 

She laughed. “You're probably right. But you know, it's all gossip. I don't really like to believe those things. People here talk crazy stuff. It's better that you just ignore that.”

 

I nodded my head. Turns out, even my grandma thinks ignorance is a bliss. Thank God. Finally someone normal in this family.

 

“What are you going to do today?”

 

“Oh, I don't know,” I stood up, and went over to the kitchen counter. I put the empty mug inside the sink, and then I turned around and walked back to her. “Or, actually, you know, I'll be going to the bonfire.”

 

“Now? Don't you want to have dinner first?”

 

“No, that's fine. I'll eat something there,” I said. Feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline slowly creeping in.

 

“Are you sure?” I heard her asking, as I was now putting the shoes on, standing in the passage which linked the hall with the rest of the house.

 

“Hundred percent sure, grandma!” I shouted back.

 

Then, as I put the jacket, and checked my pockets if I had everything, I realized I left the phone on the kitchen table. I walked those few steps back.

 

“I forgot the phone,” I explained, grabbing it from the wooden desk.

 

And as I turned, I heard her saying, “Steven!”

 

“What?”

 

“Steven. That was the name of this English priest I told you was moving over here. Now I remember!"

 

“Oh,” I didn't really know what to say. I was already thinking about seeing Daniel. “Grandma, that's great. But I'll be going, alright?”

 

“Yes, have fun, darling. Take care of yourself!”

 

And that was the last thing I heard her saying, as I shut the door. I took a deep breath, while standing outside, and I thought that people should stop worrying so obsessively. I was always taking good care of myself. Wasn't I?

 

 


	7. 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I'm very sorry you had to wait for so long. I wanted everything to go as smoothly as possible, but life got in a way, and I was moving countries, and many casual things popped up on a way, and writing was just pushed aside. Also my internet connection for a long time was pushed aside, as well. But now I'm back serving you a rather different piece. I mean, Fernando is still utterly fucked in the head, but things are changing. From now on. 
> 
> Advised to read with eyes wide open, no prejudice, rather a small amount of expectations, and most importantly, forgive me for not bringing enough of fantasy. I hope it speaks well for itself. 
> 
> And also what I want to apologize the most, and what pisses me about myself, I didn't reply to few of your amazing, brilliant comments. I know it may sound stupid to publicly announce, but I want you to know that I read every word, I cherish every dot, everything you have to say about it, all the positivity, love, many expressions I personally believe I don't deserve, but hell, I thank you for that. Because that's fucking big. And I feel like a total idiot for postponing the whole replying game. I'm going on a commenting spree, but you, you dear, I wish a good time reading this piece.

 

 

 

Some people find morning coffee's one of the greatest pleasures in life, and I understand them. Some really enjoy watching cricket. Some have hots for collecting coins. And then there was me. Me, who above all, most enjoyed doing things people didn't want me to do. When I was six my mom would say I should not climb trees, and obviously, I would go climbing trees. Not because I was enjoying the nature, but mostly because I enjoyed seeing her angry, and furious expression. Then, at the age of nine I would notoriously skip outdoors activities, and not because building wooden houses wasn't that much of fun, but I loved with all the depths of my heart when the teacher spitted all over her jaw – yelling. At the age of thirteen I would constantly bother my ethics professor with questions about pathologies, murder, abortion and homosexuality. Mind back that time I was attending private, single sex, catholic school, where they would sent you to detention for crossing your legs inappropriately. I rarely crossed my legs for anyone, though. At the age of sixteen I would blow a certain policeman in the outskirts of Madrid, so that he would let me go home without informing my mother I was carrying a small box of ecstasy pills. That was fun. And I suppose, illegal too. But if you take a close look at the biography of my life, you would find hundred, if not more, of such small accidents. And according to the philosophy of basing our long term happiness on small things, I guess doing what people didn't want me to do was my kind of a small thing.

 

So, when going to the bonfire, despite Nicklas nearly beginning me not to, I felt the familiar feeling weighing over my shoulders. And I'm not saying I wasn't scared, because I was. Now, and those hundred times before as well. Yet, I guess my kind of craziness allows me to think that the fear is what speeds up the whole process. Fear was sensational. Eating me alive. Filling up a cell after cell of my body. In some cases, fear makes people take a step back, re-think, re-do. Me? It made me take a step further. Act, before thinking ever appeared on the menu.

 

Yet there it was. Probably the biggest gathering of people this village had ever seen. The bonfire, even though it was burning bright, big, and beautiful, in my eyes it stayed in the background. Was just a fuzzy spot on the horizon, a meaningless detail. I was scanning the hordes, waiting for the attention to come like a quick, shaky hit. I have to admit though, I had absolutely no idea what I was doing there. What I wanted to do there. And that, that happened many times before too. I would have find myself in a situation, rather a crazy one, entirely because of my mindless reasoning, and if I could, I would probably throw my hands up in the air, and ask, what now? But I rarely had time for that. When you do crazy things, you need to react crazily fast. Snoring up a line of cocaine? Fast. Punching someone back? Fast. Crushing into a private property? Fast. Blowing your classmate during a five minute break? Fast, fast, fast.

 

Some people would stop talking, when I walked past them. Some would only start to. Some started to laugh, some pointed their fingers. It was all irony, all hidden hate, all misunderstanding. It felt a little like my last swimming competition. I would leave the locker room, walk down the hallway and walk into the place filled with about five thousand people sitting on the tribunes, and a majority of them would start whispering, _him, it was him, who slept with a 38 year old coach._ In a way it was legal though. I was already eighteen, when he pushed his cock up inside me. But people failed to get it. As they were now failing to get it. They didn't understand that I had to beat their friend to the punch, because these were the rules of every jungle. Of every small, brutal, human society we create for each other. Nowadays we call it all very nicely. Very correctly. We like to be so correct. Polite. But in reality, when no one is looking, we all bare our claws, flex to jump, and aim to hurt. We consider ourselves so beyond the entire animal species, but I believe no lion would ever bite into a turtle's neck, only because this particular turtle likes to swim around the other male turtle. Well, I'm still not sure whether it was turtles, who sometimes pair into homosexual relations, and yes, I should have probably listened better in biology class, rather than study painted dicks on the pages, but it is approved, by the science world that some animals do pair homosexually. And the king of jungle does not give a single fuck. Here, the king of this jungle would now look at me, as I stood by the wooden table, opening a can of beer for myself. I hated beer, but I had to do something with my hands. And having a nearly full can of beer is still better of a weapon, than nothing. I had a strange feeling everyone quietened down, and it was only Nicklas, who started maniacally half-sobbing, half-coughing, half-cursing me. The boss, fuck I forgot his name, was now smiling gently. His hand covered with white cast. Pressed against his chest. Did it hurt? I hoped so. The funny thing was, no one moved to do anything. We all stood there facing each other. Me against the hateful crowd. Me against another pointless fight of my life. Another pointless proving of something I had no idea whether was worth the war. But I smiled.

 

“I hope everyone is having a good time,” I said finally, at last, raising a can and then pressing it against my lips. Christ, awful. This beer tasted like a sperm of a smoker, who waited months to ejaculate. And years to quit the addiction. _Daniel_. I loved the moment, when my eyes would catch his posture, and I would recognize the solid body, the unimpressed expression, the paleness of his skin. I knew I should be paying more attention to the crowd. Analyzing, who is in there to make a step. Who will initiate the chase. Who was in charge of weapon, fists, manipulation, traps. But I was so oblivion to the danger of the situation, because he was so tall, so cold, so distanced, so not mine, and so probably never to be mine, that I just could not dwell on reality. My eyes were fixed on him. Expecting. Nearly begging. And I swear, I was the biggest idiot to ever walk this earth, because instead of planning an easy way-out, I would watch him gently move in-between people. Like some sort of a sneaky fucking snake. Invisible in the greenness of grass. Following his own instincts. Uncatchable. And why, why did he have to look _this_ good in black? Black was supposed to be miserable. Too intellectual. Too please-not-bother-me, and all I wanted to do was to bother him. With my entire body. I was going to loose my mind. I knew it. Then my arms, and legs.

 

But before I grasped what was happening out there, I heard a gun shot, _a gun shot_ , and people started moving chaotically, dispersing into different directions. Someone was screaming, someone even laughing, and I stood there, turning my head from left to right, then right to left, observing the crowds in shock. This is Denmark. According to many surveys it is a paradise, and people living here are supposed to be one of the happiest on earth, but still, having great country economy, free education, and high wages didn't stop certain people from pulling out a gun and just shooting. Or more precisely, taking a one shot. So maybe I wasn't a mentally stable one, but some people seriously needed a check-up. And as I was contemplating this surreal situation, I felt someone pushing against the side of my body, and God, I was pretty sure that this was it, until I realized it was Daniel, and Daniel hand pushing me forward, so angrily the can with beer slipped from my fingers, but I guess we didn't have time to cry over it, as he motioned with his head in direction of woods, and maybe going there wasn't the brightest of decisions I've made in my life, but staying in the same position, facing someone who had a fucking gun, wouldn't be smart either. And at first we were just walking up there fast, still pretty covered by others rushing around the bonfire, not knowing what was happening, but then, as we passed through the first trees, I noticed Daniel started to run, and you know, the first rule always said that if in a situation of high risk and explicit danger someone starts running, you shouldn't be thinking why. You should fucking run too. And I kept track of his back, not wanting to loose him in a forrest, late afternoon, where the wi-fi probably didn't work, and there was someone very angry behind, in possession of a gun. Yeah, keeping close to Daniel was the smartest I could do now. And I don't know for how long we've been running, because it just felt like a never-ending cycle of passing by same bushes and trees and it was only getting darker and darker and I really wanted to stop then, and there, but I had this undoubted feeling we were on to something. Like it wasn't a meaningless trip down the treasures of nature, but –

 

 _oh,_ suddenly, a tight grip pulled me side-way, and I was no longer mindlessly running towards the unknown. I was now, face-to-face, with the object of my most current fantasies. His back was pressed against the tree, and I, oh Lord, I was pressed against him, but in the craze of entire situation I have noticed the sexuality of this position only seconds later. He would hover over me. Literally hover over me. And I felt small. Invisible. And so that, I opened my mouth to say something, but he pressed the hand abruptly against my mouth, and would nod his head disapprovingly. It probably meant _not now, Fernando. Not now._ So I shut my mouth, fighting the urge to stick out my tongue a little and taste that skin of his. Yet, he would completely ignore me, now turning his head, and peeking from behind the tree to see if anyone was out there, and for a minute, when it got so deadly quiet, he would turn back, put the hand down, and just look at me. A second later he nodded his head again, giving away a half smile.

 

“Now what?” I whispered, slightly irritated. “I wasn't the one, who pulled out a gun and decided to shoot. Don't give me that look.”

 

Which should all translate into _please, just give me more of those looks_. But I remained silent. Taking a small, tiny step forward, now finding myself more in-between his legs than a time ago. And when I wanted to speak up again, I heard someone moving. Somewhere out there. Moving. I froze. Breathing loudly. And I wanted to peek, see who it was out there, but the steps just got louder, and the voices, no, not a voice, but voices became more recognizable, and maybe I was getting better with my Danish, but don't expect me to translate, when pressed against this boy's crotch. Daniel didn't move though. He didn't turn around. He would still stand there, with his back leaned against the old, enormous tree, staring at my face. Right into my eyes. Like nothing around would exist. Like maybe we weren't get to be killed tonight. Like maybe he would kiss me, and I would oblige. Melt into him. Give in to the burning temptation. Feel what it is like to be needed, before ever desired, and maybe it was all bullshit, and maybe nothing would happen. Maybe my biggest punishment would be to burn down with this feeling of want, and having to keep quiet about it. Would I do? Was it in me to keep quiet about things? Was I quiet? And I hoped his hand would go up, and cover my lips, and stop me from breathing so loudly, but it didn't. He didn't move, but he let me. He let me drag my hips a little up. If it wasn't to show him I was already half-hard, I would say it was all innocent. Pure. Like a first encounter in which you don't really know your way around, but you hope your instincts will take you down the road. I moved even closer. And it wasn't even about my cock anymore. It was that I wanted to have his torso against mine, and I reached up to his ear.

 

“Last night,” I started, murmuring, voice hoarse, I feared it might have not reach his senses, but how many chances like that would I have get? “Last night, when lying in bed, a plain sheet over my body, I would put my thumbs behind the material and drag the boxers down. Black boxers. In case you ever wondered. And I, I would feel my cock against the cold material, and I thought about whether you sleep naked too. Or when you touch yourself, whether you do it through the material, or you undress yourself fully first. And I want to know how you undress yourself,” then, as I licked my lips, I moved my head to face him, and even though his impression remained unreadable, his lips were delicately parted, and something like a dark shade of red covered his cheeks. He wasn't touching me though. He wasn't seeking friction. He wasn't going to kiss me. He just looked at me, and I looked at him. “And lately,” I would continue whispering, looking straight into his eyes, “when I undress myself, all I think about is how you would undress me. And then I think about your hands. Your hands drive me crazy. Please do something with your hands now. Or with a hand. Touch me, please?” and slowly, slowly he would raise his hand and touch my neck with his fingers. But it was all so delicate, I wondered whether maybe I just hallucinated, and his hand never made it to my skin. He would run with his fingers down my neck, up till the collarbones, and he wouldn't look at the route of his hand. He would look at my lips. Parted. He would outline the shape of my collarbones, even if half of it was now covered with a t-shirt material, and as I wanted to continue, the voices began to seem even louder. More visible. I moved closer. Desperately closer. Now my entire body was pressed against his. And I would find my place in the hook of his neck, and I would whisper to his skin, “and as I lied in my bed last night, thinking about you, I would touch myself everywhere, but my cock, because I thought it was the kind of thing you would do, and then it started to hurt, so I would roll on my stomach,” and suddenly his hand covered my mouth so abruptly, and nearly angrily, that a bit of his finger found its way in to my mouth. Someone was standing on the other side of the tree. Saying something. Laughing. Then saying something again. I would shut my eyes, begging on the inside. Begging. If God exists please that one time to let it go, and I would behave like I never did before. I might only be of Daniel's possession, fine, but please let it go. And I have no idea how long it lasted, how long the group talked in-between each other, and if it was a minute, or ten, but suddenly, suddenly their voices got more blurry, their steps getting further, and further away, and I felt every muscle of my body relaxing. I would even smile at some point, when Dan took his hand from my lips, and if he stayed indifferent the whole time before, now it seemed like an invitation to continue, and so I did, “I would, I would roll on my stomach, and when my cock pressed against the mattress I would moan your name loudly to the pillow, so no one heard how I kept saying _Daniel, please_ , and I would say please, and then your name, and then please again, and mattress wasn't enough, so I remember I started jacking myself off, but it still wasn't enough, and it hurt so badly, because I didn't know what to do, and repeating your name was just making it even more difficult for me, because you weren't there and I wanted you to be there, and I wanted you to make me cum with your fingers, or mouth, or tongue, or altogether and please,” that was the last thing I said, when my hips fully met his, and he would be so hard. So hard. And I looked down and I saw his cock outlined on the black jeans material, and it was arched to the left, and it was big, and I couldn't help, I couldn't help, but to grab at his bulge, bringing my hand between our bodies, and as I grabbed at him, he would press his head against the tree, shut his eyes, and open his mouth. And I wanted to hear a sound, I wanted to hear a sound coming out, but it was nothing. _Nothing_. “Have you ever had your cock sucked?” and suddenly his eyes opened, and his lips came together, and he started breathing more quickly, and I stopped touching him, I broke the contact. He wasn't moving for what felt like an eternity, until he shook his head in an disapproving gesture. Oh boy, how is that possible? From the first time I saw him I've been fantasizing how would it be to have my mouth filled with him, and for the past eighteen years of his life no one came to such conclusion? But before I gave myself a chance to think more, I got down to my knees, right in front of him. And for few, split seconds his eyebrows were arched up in surprise, and his mouth opened, and there was a movement of his lips, like he really wanted to say something, maybe oppose, maybe say I should stop fooling around, and get back up, or that we're still in danger, and if anyone catches us in _this_ position the person will not hesitate to pull a trigger. Maybe. Okay. True. But I was already down, facing his crotch, and the bulge was bigger than I first thought it was, and maybe he had that amounts of self-control, but I hadn't. And when I put both of my hands on his thighs, digging fingers onto the jeans material hard, I expected him to protest, follow his previous reasoning, but maybe he, as I, waited for this for far too long, and maybe he, as I, thought a chance like that may not come around soon, so why wait any longer? I think eighteen years of not having your cock sucked are enough. So now, now my hands were playing around his belt loops. I started to slowly, very slowly, pull the belt, until it released and his old, worn-out black jeans slid down his hips slightly, and I would press my face against his abdomen, smelling the skin, biting at the hem of his shirt, which smelled exactly like him. Only less exciting. And he had this trail of hair going down his stomach and then disappearing underneath the material of boxers, and God, this couldn't be more difficult. But there are always two options. First: you can go down on a guy like a bigot – believing that even taking one look at his hard cock will serve you an infinity of burning flames. Second: you can prolong every move, drag every lick into a never-ending game, and that will always end up quite spectacularly. And as I was far from fearing the eternal punishment, I was extremely close to just unzipping his jeans, and putting him all in at a one go. Why? I just loved sucking cock. There was no complicated logic behind it. And because I loved it so much, I feared I might spoil the play, and just go straight to business, and as much as I loved that too, I thought Daniel deserved his first time to be unforgettable. And not that I care about first time's, but I'm something. And I wanted him to know that.

 

“Well,” I finally said, when his jeans were pulled down to the line of his knees, and only the brief material of his boxers was covering his cock. I looked up to stare right into his eyes, and I smiled, “I don't know if you really deserve that,” and I bit my lower lip, letting my teeth painfully nudge at the delicate skin. What slightly shocked me was that, after all, he smiled too. Less gently, and more ironically, but he smiled. And maybe he wasn't so forward in his moves, but I was more than slightly shocked, when I felt his hand on my cheek, and then his index finger outlining the shape of my lips, and I parted my mouth by inches, to let his index finger slide inside. And he didn't slide it in like an innocent, anxious boy would do. A little bit at first, then maybe, after some consideration, and my encouragement, it would all fit in my mouth. He put it all in straight away, then rolled his finger in my mouth, exploring it in a way I wanted his tongue to. And it was fun, showing him I can be slutty not only with a cock, but with a finger as well. Yet, I got bored. And he did soon too, as he took his finger out, and without waiting a second more, he sledded the boxers down, and oh my fucking God, it was just _beautiful_. Some cocks are not. Trust me. Some are not well formed, arched too much to left or right, too small to properly jack off, too veiny to taste the skin, just not good enough. And I had absolutely no idea what made me think his was a perfect one, because I don't even think about mine like that, not even about Sergio's but fuck me, it was too good to be true. So I licked my lips, staring at his fully exposed cock. Long, hard, and innocent. I almost felt guilty, when parting my lips to fill my mouth with him. I was a first to taste it, damn, I had no fucking idea why was I so fucking emotional about that, and I let all those silly thoughts rush through my head, but then I dug deeper, feeling him up against my throat, and it is when I usually loose any sort of sensibility. He tasted good. Very good. Like a virgin. Like no one ever sucked him before, therefore it was only his cock, and his skin, and my mouth, and my saliva, and nothing else in between, because there was nothing else in the past. I swirled my tongue around him, around his entire length, down from the bottom, till the very tasty head of his dick. Appreciating this rare sort of surprise. I don't think I was ever someone's first. And despite having his cock in my mouth, I realized, it was so far all about me, but then I looked up, for the first time since I started blowing him, and I saw him this vulnerable and it hit me. Because wasn't giving a blow job about having this sort of overwhelming power? In a heterosexual world it definitely was. I think so. Women controlled the situation. In a gay world it was first pleasure, before it ever was about proving anything. And he stood there, leaning against the tree, his knees shaking the more I sucked on his sides, and the more I licked off his pre-cum from the head of his cock, and it didn't fill my mouth gently, no, it was up against my throat, and I couldn't breath, and it got worse when his hands suddenly grabbed at my head, pulling at my hair, and if at first I thought I was sucking him, then somehow it all changed into him slowly fucking my mouth. And I knew he won't be able to go on like this for long, so I used my hands to press against his hips, and push him more against the tree. His cock now out of my mouth, and up in my hand. And I licked my lips, feeling his pre-cum in the corners. And it was salty, and nothing more than that. No exquisite taste, but nothing to be disgusted with. It tasted like an average sperm. Well, wouldn't it be a little too much if he had a perfect fucking cock, and then a perfect fucking cum? Tasting like pineapple and mango just freshly squeezed? So I was stroking him. Gently. Up and down. Playing circles with my thumb, when I reached his head, and then I brought myself closer, and sucked on him, like his dick was the finest lollipop this world had to offer. I kept looking straight into his eyes, because I thought that was more sexual than the whole blow job going on right now, and maybe that really made me a sick, fucking whore, if I considered looking into someone's eyes more sexual than keeping their cock in my mouth, but once the other person doesn't talk, doesn't say a word, doesn't even encouragingly moan, their eyes are the one and only answer you can get, and you either learn to read the depths of their eyes, or you stay indifferent, oblivion, and ignorant to their needs. I stood up, releasing his cock. I would press with my hips against him, feeling him on my stomach. My hands went underneath his shirt, up trailing his torso, till I reached his nipples, and believe me, I had a serious thing for them. I loved to suck them, play with them, bite them, leave bruises around them. So, now when I started delicately rubbing with my fingertips and nails against his nipples, and I saw him relaxing, breathing out, loosing a bit more of tension, I moved closer, because I was desperate for a kiss, for his tongue, for him to become a bit more mine, and maybe if he never had his dick sucked, then maybe he never kissed a guy before as well? Maybe he never kissed anyone before? And then I would again be his first? How fucking fixated can one be about that? But apparently Daniel was nowhere close to kissing me. What? I tasted too much like his own cum? Oh right, that's so fucking dirty. But kneeling in front of him, and letting him fuck my throat wasn't fucking dirty at all.

 

“Don't be so selfish, Daniel,” I murmured to his ear, licking the earlobe, then his neck's skin, then getting back to his earlobe, as my hands were still pinching and playing with his nipples. “Let me kiss you, and then you can come on my face. Or in my mouth,” I said, smiling, realizing how fucking low of me it was to offer such a deal. “Or you can fuck me here if you want to, I really don't fucking care,” and then I realized, as I looked at him, that saying things like that made him even more harder. Interesting. Maybe if you can't speak, and other person can, then it sends you over the fucking moon if they talk out loud about all of your dirty fantasies? But he didn't change his mind about kissing, and he would turn his head the other way, when I got closer to his mouth, and then at some point he would angrily grab at my hands and he would push them down, indicating I should just fucking stop the gentle caress, and make him come. And frankly, I wanted the whole game to finish as well. I was hard. I needed an orgasm. I needed someone to fuck me into insanity, and it seemed like this particular person standing in front of me, wasn't really that keen on giving back the pleasure. This fucking egoistic prick. And he definitely didn't deserve to cum into my mouth, so I just jerked him off. And there was something oddly sexual about looking at his face, seeing how it twitches with pleasure, but when his mouth was open, there would be no sound coming out, and on one hand it was a bit weird, but it turned me on. It did turn me on. Yet, this time it was supposed to be very little about my own needs, and pretty much all about his, so I made my best to make him feel the satisfaction and final release, and of course he would come, not really an earth-shuttering orgasm that was, but he half-collapsed onto my torso, shaking, and the only noise I heard him making was when he breathed out, but it was so hoarse, so low, so nearly non-existent, that after all I might have been just wrong. The only thing I wasn't wrong about, was that he came half into my hand, and half onto my shirt, and it will be all fucking great to be walking back home with a sperm stain on my clothing. “It's fine,” I would say, when after couple of minutes he would helplessly try to clean my shirt with his hand. “I don't mind,” I said, and he stopped. Not looking at my face. He would bent and roll-up his boxers, then his jeans, then only later he would straighten his back and finally shoot me a glance. He still had that something in his eyes – unspecified. But he always had that. Like you couldn't really tell what he was thinking about, what he wanted to do, whether he was on to save you, or destroy you. Whether he liked you, or hated you. Whether he was now amused, and appreciative, or disgusted that it didn't take him much to send me down to my knees. I wish I could tell him, though. I do this a lot. It's no big deal. You didn't make me less pure. If there was still anything in this world that could make me less pure. But I had a secret feeling that when he kept looking at me now, he maybe realized that the lips of mine sucked onto many cocks before. And they faced many different endings to such scenarios. And he could never be my first, as I was his tonight. But maybe that wasn't what he wanted to achieve. And then again, would I ever know what he would like to achieve? I still hoped he would start kissing me mindlessly, or that he would at least grope at my crotch, unzip my jeans, and just do the most simple thing one could do in such situation. But no. Not at all. He didn't do anything. “I thought so,” I said loudly, ironically, pretty angry. Cause for Christ sake, imagine still being hard. Imagine still needing a release. I'm not talking about giving me the best orgasm one can possibly have, but just _do something_. He didn't want to do anything. “Just tell me how to get home, and I'll get there on my own,” I made a step back, looking around the trees, trying to recognize, recall any sort of direction that may lead me to a safe place. And as I didn't hear any response to what I just said, I focused my gaze on him, suddenly realizing the obvious, “Oh, right, you can't speak,” and it turned out to be painfully sarcastic, and in a way I really fucking didn't mean that. I didn't want to sound bitter. Mean. Okay, so I blew him, and he didn't want to do anything back to me. Fine. Should be fine. Happened to me couple of times. I kept looking at him, quite shamelessly, waiting for a move. At least for a fucking tip how to get home. But no. “Bye,” I said casually, and then I turned and walked away, in direction of where I thought we run from, and then I just forced myself to think about something else. Whatever. Just something. _Swimming, Sergio, guns, swimming, Sergio, Daniel, no, Sergio, Daniel's cock, no, very much fucking no_ , and then as I was walking for more than fifteen minutes my phone suddenly started ringing in the back of my pocket, and God, thank God, I remembered to take it from the table, so I look at the display, and out of all the people, who could call me, it was **Juergen.** Fuck. Knowing his spying skills he already probably knew what I was up to past hours.

 

“Yes?” I say, when picking up.

 

“Where the hell are you?”

 

That was nice. Heard worse thousand times before.

 

“Honestly? No idea.”

 

And that he heard thousand times before as well.

 

“Apparently there was shooting at the bonfire? Is it true? Are you alright? What happened? I called you many times before, but the service must have been bad.”

 

“Yeah, there was. Someone pulled out a gun and took a shot. I was, uhm, hiding. In the woods.”

 

I just wanted to laugh at my own response, but instead, I didn't.

 

“What do you mean you were hiding in the woods?”

 

“Actually, if the service is so good now, it probably means I'm somewhere close to getting out. But then again, I can try the Google maps, or some shit like that, I don't know, I'll call you when I need you,” which I never did.

 

“Call me, Fernando. This is serious.”

 

I hung up. And I've done the most common thing lost people do. I tried putting my phone the highest up possible, searching for a better service. For the bars to hopefully rise from pulsating from non-existence to existence. And then I saw them stable for a second, so I froze, not moving an inch from the spot. I turned on the 4G, nearly praying for it to work. And it did. After some dreading, never-ending minutes. I opened the Google Maps app and wrote down the name of the only street I knew –– the one where they picked me up to go to work. 30 minutes. It will take me 30 minutes to get to the final destination, so probably about 15-something to leave the woods. Now, google maps, do your thing. I moved from my spot, as the application ordered, but then the bars started slowly fading away and my connection was lost. Fuck this fucking useless fucking crap. Oh, okay, the map sort of stayed. I should have taken the small adventurer classes when I was in a fifth grade. You know, how to fix a tent. How to light a fire with two stones only. How to know your directions. Not that I was completely clueless, damn no, but in case I would have to stay here forever, hiding, then definitely I could make some use out of that. I've been walking for some time now, hoping I've taken a right course, and things will somehow fall into a place, I didn't really think about Daniel, or maybe I did, and I was just trying to kid myself in a worst way possible. Above all, I was curious. Why wouldn't he let me kiss him? Why would he so obscenely move his head away? Why wouldn't he touch me? Why wouldn't he do anything in response? I mean, I'm all about being selfish and greedy in bed, but it does turn you on doing favorable, sexual things for others. Of course, getting your cock sucked is my top pleasurable activity on earth, but getting on my knees and sucking someone for their own pleasure, well, that's pretty fucking nice too. Maybe this whole situation got a little out of hand. Maybe he would never expect it to happen. Maybe he never wanted it to happen. Thank God this little self-discussion made me a bit less tensed, and hard. I was still quite hard, mind that. But in the haze of everything else it kinda just –– fuck, Juergen was calling me again.

 

“Yes?”

 

“So where are you?”

 

“No idea. Again. I lost my 4G. But google said I'm quite close to getting out of the woods ––“

 

“Why would you go to the woods for Christ fucking sake? You don't know the area, you don't know your way around here, why didn't you just get back home?”

 

And as I pulled the phone a bit away from my ear, I didn't response, and the silence made Juergen speak up again.

 

“Okay. Asking questions pointless as usual. Listen Fernando, I'll take the car and wait for you on the side of the road. The road that leads to woods. The place where they light a bonfire is about three hundred meters away, so whichever way you get out, you'll probably see me. As soon as you see a car, just come right away. Don't do anything else.”

 

I nodded my head.

 

“Are you there?”

 

“Yes. I was nodding.”

 

“Good. I'm getting out of the house. Be careful.”

 

I hung up. Juergen didn't seem angry, God bless. But I knew that one way or the other, he'll get to his talking. To his usual mantra. We weren't close, but in a way we were. The mutual misunderstandings bonded us. We couldn't properly communicate, and understand each other, therefore we had to find a way to somehow do communicate, and do understand each other. Seems messy, I know, but that's how our relationship works. I was never jealous of him. In fact, when my mom told me she was seeing someone, I remember feeling relieved. I was about nine or ten. The only thing I've done back that time was swimming, and being reckless. Juergen wanted to stop that. Not swimming, my recklessness. And that was when trouble begun. You don't tell me what to do, unless we're together in bed, and I'm in a mood to be bossed around. You don't tell me what I can say, or what I can't say. You don't try to hover over me with your intelligence, maturity, strictness, and I-feel-like-I-want-to-be-your-dad. Juergen can't have kids. I believe if he could have kids, then he would have left my mom long time ago. Leave me as well. He would make his little Juergen's and wouldn't buy my bullshit. And pay for it as well. All the expensive, private schools. Swimming competitions. New hi-tech devices. Bribing teachers, and headmasters. Funding school facilities, so they would forget it happened I took drugs, smoked some weed, bullied someone. From time to time. I wasn't a bad person, I knew that, yet no one understood that my twisted ways weren't a sign of evil. They were a sign of something maybe partially bad, but not coming from a source of bad. Well, that's complicated. And oh my fucking God, I noticed this sort of emptiness behind a row of trees, and some greenish field, and maybe, maybe, maybe, this was a way out? I fastened my pace, and some hopeful seconds later, found myself out. Out. Out. Out. A big, fucking smile sprawled on my face, and I started to laugh. I fucking made it. As my happiness haze slowly faded away, I looked around, and I saw a car. As Juergen said. Side of a road that led to woods. Just from the opposite way. The bonfire was now just ashes, as I quickly walked past it. A lot of garbage. Food leftovers. Some clothing. I fastened my pace, now nearly running up to the car. Would be a big fucking shame if I got shot now, five seconds away from getting into a safe place. I gracefully slide in, letting out a big breath as I comfortably slumped against the front passenger seat.

 

“Everything's fine?”

 

Juergen asks a few minutes later. He hates silence. He really does.

 

“Yeah. Now it is.”

 

“So what happened?”

 

It slightly pisses me off he's not driving away.

 

“I went to the bonfire. Didn't really do much. Opened a can of beer. Wanted to have fun. Then someone pulled out a gun, and took a shot,” I remained casual, as I spoke. Then I moved my head, and faced Juergen's look.

 

“After years of knowing you, I need you to specify 'wanted to have fun' sentence.”

 

I smiled. “I didn't do anything. I swear. I just said I wish everyone a good fucking time. Well, good time. Basically. That was it.”

 

“Who did you say it to?”

 

“To a crowd. Of people. In general.”

 

“And the boy who's arm you broke was there as well?”

 

“I didn't break his arm. And yes, he was there as well.”

“Did you say it to him? In your usual tone?”

 

“What is my usual tone?”

 

“Fernando, you know what I'm talking about.”

 

I pressed my back against the seat, and I broke the eye contact by looking away.

 

“Maybe I sounded a little ironic, but that was it,” I said, still looking at the view in front.

 

“So you provoked the situation.”

 

I suddenly looked at him, mouth open, eyes wide in shock. “You weren't even there! What the fuck! How did I provoke the situation?”

 

He pouted. He seriously fucking pouted, and then moved in his seat, switched on the engine, and slowly we were driving away.

 

“You got in a fight yesterday. Today there was a shooting. A shooting! Here! I lived in this place for nearly eighteen years of my life, and I assure you this is one of the safest places on earth ––“

 

“And here comes your theory again. I come here, and the place is all devilish. I'm the fucking devil.”

 

“First, don't speak like that. Second, I never said you're a devil.”

 

My mouth remained opened as I listened to this constant, and utter bullshit. I didn't even want to reply to that, so I crossed my arms over my chest, looking around, angry.

 

“I think you should quit the job.”

 

He suddenly said, and I turned my head quickly.

 

“What?”

 

“It was only four days that you worked, or five. Yes, five. Look what happened. I can't possibly risk anything else like that happening.”

 

“Oh, sure, so I'll quit the thing only because you're scared of your reputation, whatever else, but then no matter what happens, every occasion possible, you'll just keep pointing out how I never finished that summer job, because, and here I can insert all possible bullshit you'll come up with.”

 

He was silent. He knew I'm right.

 

“What will I do in this fucking shithole anyway?”

 

“Train.”

 

Now I was silent.

 

“Sure, Juergen, I will train. Weren't you the one telling me there's no possible way of me getting back on the team?”

 

“Yes, that was until I received an e-mail from a swimming team in Fuenlabrada saying they'll take you. The only demand they have is that you stay in an exact shape as you were back during the last championship.”

 

“How exact?”

 

“Milliseconds.”

 

I let out an ironic, short, hollow laugh.

 

“Impossible. I already haven't been training for over a week. In order to keep that record I would have to be training every single day since the day of the competition. And Fuenlabrada? Seriously? Their swimmers are not even competing in regionals. Not even in Madrid.”

 

“It's the closest to Madrid I could get. And impossible apparently is nothing, Fernando.”

 

I shut my mouth. My lips now probably a shape of a pale line. Anger wasn't even a suitable word to describe what I was feeling. And how angry I really was.

 

It was silent for some time now.

 

“When did you find out?”

 

“Today. I got back home, checked my email, wanted to tell you, but grandma said you went out to that bonfire.”

 

“Did you reply?”

 

He didn't say anything, as he parked the car in front, and stopped the engine. He turned his head to the side, looking at me.

 

“No, not yet. It's your decision after all.”

 

I heavily sighed. “Where would I even train? Copenhagen is like hundred kilometers away.”

 

“Grandma told me about this special facility. Apparently 20 km away from here.”

 

Rich kids rehab? Was that it?

 

“Oh, okay,” I murmured quietly.

 

“We will figure something out. Worst case scenario I book a flight back to Madrid. Wouldn't it be what you wanted from the very beginning?”

 

I gave away a half-smile. “Yeah, probably.”

 

“I told them we will reply by Monday. Think about it over a weekend.”

 

“I will,” I said, still weirdly quiet. None of us moved from their seat. None of us wanted to leave the car.

 

“It's better we go home now. They are very worried about you.”

 

“How's mom?”

 

I asked, still not yet moving. Juergen opened his door. Getting already out. But then he moved his head to face me.

 

“Drunk,” he said. Sounding serious. And as I thought he was turning back, he looked at me again, and added, “but that's not your fault.”

 

And then the only thing I heard was him shutting the door.

 


	8. 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have absolutely no idea why it has taken me so long to finish this piece. Or really just to even start writing it. It's not that I even forget, because trust me I don't. It's the whole process, and me just being constantly late with updating seems to be a very solid part of that process. This piece is quite of a bridge chapter. It's long, sure, I've tried my best, but it is also necessary for everything that's coming up further on. So I hope you enjoy, and that you report back whatever that would be, and most importantly, cause it's still January so I'm allowed to say it: have an absolutely thrilling 2015. 
> 
> Kisses.

 

 

When I wake up the day after, first thing I realize is that I still feel him in my mouth. I don't even manage to fully roll my eyes open, but my tongue hits the back of my mouth, and I already know. It is _him_. Or better, his cock. 

"Since when are you this sentimental?” I hear from afar, in Spanish, and I think this question is directed towards me. I want to open my mouth – still half-asleep, half-unaware – and answer. Probably explain myself. Try to come up with something ridiculously saint to my sinful, morning thoughts. And as I'm close to letting something out – someone’s response comes faster. Voice tough. Accent thick. 

"Since when do you care?”

And I immediately drive my back up from the sofa. Perfect timing, isn't it?

"Fernando,” my mom says, a tone of voice much sweeter and nicer than minutes before. 

"Morning,” I answer hoarsely. Disoriented to why I woke up on the coach, rather than in my comfortable bed upstairs. "What time is it?”

"Ten past eight,” Juergen answers, and my eyes snap wide open in shock. I look at him, suspiciously, then turn my head to glance at the big-ass clock hanging on the opposite wall. Truth. It is ten past eight. This place really is devilish if I wake up, _on my own_ , at eight in the morning.

"Did I interrupt?” I ask nicely, forcing a bit that tone of voice. Normally I wouldn’t care, but suddenly I go two steps forward and instead of caring, I even ask. 

"No, we were just _talking,_ ” my mom says ironically, taking a seat in an armchair, in front of Juergen. I find myself in between, tugged in a warm, blanket cocoon, with messy hair, aftertaste of Daniel’s cock, and my parents about to fight. Not that my presence would prevent it from happening. I just postponed the usual to the close future. 

"Why didn’t you let him sleep?” I hear my grandmother in the back, and before any of us manage to disagree, she comes to sit next to me, wrapping her arm around my neck. She gives me a conscious look, ignoring Juergen sighing heavily and my mom rolling her eyes. "Your face looks much better today,” she says, a gentle smile curling on her lips. Eyes wandering all over my face, as if detecting a change, searching for hidden cues, messages, and when her gaze stops on my lips, I quickly move my head away, breaking the tight embrace. No one in this family needs to know I was sucking someone yesterday. Especially not her.

"So, what do we eat for breakfast?” I ask, looking around them. Juergen all into his BlackBerry, my mom’s eyes now nearly glued to the TV news section, and my grandma, as I side-look onto her, still being suspicious. So what, I did suck him for a little. Big deal. 

"I’ll make you something,” she says, giving up the intrusive look; similing so gently once again. 

"Thanks,” I murmur, trying to curve my lips in a manner resembling hers, but I guess I was just born with this morning defect.

As grandma walks back to the kitchen, and us three sit here together, I feel like little have changed. If it wasn’t for the warm surrounding and Scandinavian interior design, I would bet I’m in Madrid, waking up on the couch, as I was probably way too drunk a night before to get to bed on my own. My mom was neglecting, Juergen already busy, always way too busy, and I in-between. Many times it happened I thought of myself as of someone special, like that beyond average figure, a child of superior qualities, not necessarily intelligence, but an overal outlook of mine I always hoped had given a different vibe, but there were moments like this particular one, when I woke up in cold realization of being utterly average, and non-special, and all the qualities I falsely thought I possesed were suddenly gone. Or least, their magical, differentiating power was gone. I’m entirely same as millions of other, struggling teenagers. And what’s so terrible about my struggle is that it is probably not even real. Think about kids in Sudan, think about Middle East refugees, think about million kids in Asia unable to get basic education. That’s a real struggle, when you think about it. A kid who’s unable to qualify himself in the modern world is not a struggle anymore. It’s a common. I’m not saying though the pain is not real. The tears are not tears. And that the bruises don’t hurt anymore. But I feel I’m way too priviliged to be feeling what I’m feeling, and I’m way too shallow, and plainly hollow to be given a chance to identify myself with those, who suffer deeply. I realize there is no good measure for pain, but then again, I think I once cried, because they didn’t pass me a good line of coke… Kids like me should be shot straight in their heads, right in-between eyes, shouldn’t they? Worst thing was that I was slowly becoming my own enemy, and I couldn’t quite figure why. 

"Fernando!” my grandma’s loud voice suddenly reaches my senses and I fidget, quickly looking around. 

"What? What?” I chaotically ask, standing up.

"Someone’s ringing the doorbell! Can you get that?” 

And I nod my head, surprised to how deep one can get inside of their head if they try at least a little. I looked back at Juergen and mom; both completely uninterested with the surroundings, or better, with the fact who might be bothering us at 8 in the morning.  

I open the door still fully covered in a blanket cocoon, and the view I suddenly face is the view I never expected to face… surely not here. 

Two policemen waiting by the door, wearing black uniforms, with faces of unfazed expressions. One of them starts saying something in Danish, but I'm so overwhelmed, and he speaks so quickly that the only thing I manage to do is to turn my head aside, and shout my stepfather’s name. 

"Just come here,” I say irritated, as he kept asking me who is it by the door and why should he come, but then he stands up, and moves, and I don’t know whether it’s my perspective or he is really that slow, but then, then he sees what I see, and what was before a normal behavior, and a normal expression marking his face, suddenly changes to something I don’t recall seeing before. 

He greets the policemen in Danish, and even though I don’t understand that much, or try to fool myself and trick my mind into not understanding much, I read people face expresions beyond well, so I can tell. They’re both serious, fast, and down to get their business done – the policemen obviously. Juergen is nice, very nice; he also plays that surprised father, who doesn’t know what the whole fuss might be about, but the familiar game soon comes to an end, and Juergen moves his head to face me. 

"Change your clothes. Take your passport. We’re going.” 

He can't be more serious even if the hell cracks open right now.  

"Fernando!” my grandma screams from the inside of the kitchen and I’m torn apart. I look at Juergen, then at the two policemen standing by the front door, and then I move my head in the kitchen direction, knowing that if I don’t answer, grandma is going to come here and cut my throat open, because one thing my grandma hates, and I suspect is a thing all grandma’s hate, is when the already prepared food is waiting to be consumed. And no one is there to consume it.  

"Get your ID and we’re going,” Juergen says through nearly, fully clenched lips as if knowing what I’ve been thinking about. As if knowing I was wholeheartedly up to sneak away and back off. 

Instead, I just nod my head and go upstairs quickly. I put some regular jeans, and a regular, cotton shirt, and I brush my teeth, as if that would take the sin out of my mouth, but once my reflection passes me by in the mirror, suddenly the whole strong sense of who I thought I was feels ridicolously small. Like I bet you have that feeling when you look at yourself and maybe it’s in the morning when you’re disgustingly hangover, or when you wake up next to the person you have no idea who it might be, or when you’re half way snorting a fat line of coke, and you feel like an ironic joke. Or no. Ironic jokes are actually pretty good. You’re not even a joke with a potential. Not even a joke alone. Something below. Like a sad absurd. Pathetic. I felt pathetic. And maybe it had nothing to do with who I was inside, maybe it was that shade of a day, that feel of an hour, but it was surely standing strong. 

I go downstairs as fast as possible, grabbing something to eat from the table and apologizing to grandma I will finish once I’m back home. Then me and Juergen leave. 

"Where did they go?” I ask him, as we enter the car. I thought I’ll be escorted down to the police headqaurters or something like that, but Juergen looks at me and shakes his head. 

"You’re not a criminal.” 

"Not yet,” I add with a cheeky smile, trying to loose the tension, but he lookes side way again and he doesn’t smile. Not funny. Not funny from Juergen’s perspective. You need to know there’s rarely anything funny from Juergen’s perspective. "I was joking,” I say finally, bored. 

"Then don’t. There’s nothing funny in being ask to testify.”

"Testify?” I ask, shocked. 

"Do I look like someone who jokes?”

"Point taken,” I retort ironically, forcing an ugly smile. 

"They just said that due to the abonormality of yesterday’s events they want to talk with all the kids who took part in the bonfire. They need to know, who was in posession of gun.” 

"So they still don’t know?”

"You can be smart if you want to,” he gives me that crooked smile, and I guess I’ll forever wonder whether it’s me being this intolerable, or he is just an asshole. Huge possibility is that both answers are correct.

"I just don’t understand what the whole drama is about,” I say, looking outside the window. "Fine. Someone had a gun. Someone took a shot. I get it. It’s not normal. But dragging every, single one of us down to testify… like what am I supposed to say?” as I ask the question, I turn my head to face him, but Juergen only shrugs his shoulders. Being useful as usual.

"Ignoring the disturbing beginning of your statement… is there anything you’re afraid to confess?” and he eyes me for a longer than necessary, then thankfully he brings his focus back on the road.  

"No,” I respond fast, but calmly. One thing about lying: always be dead fucking sure which way you’re going with it. And even if at some point it happens you don’t exactly know the way, just stick to being dead sure about it. Dead sure always helps. One way or the other. "No,” I reassure him, "Nothing I would know of.”

"Really?” he asks again, smiling. 

You see, there’s something about him. Like, we all know he isn’t the one to make silly jokes with. He isn’t the one to understand a certain humor, but once you look at him, from some distant, odd perspective you can easily detect there’s something he weirdly, almost fully enjoys about it. Like all those crooked smiles, and eyes rolling, and shoulders shrugging, and this sardonic undertone creeping in, and I wonder if maybe, 8 out of 10 times, isn’t it him ruling the scenario? Look at him. He is nearly smiling right now. And the more I stare, the more disturbed I am. 

"Juergen” I say suddenly, ignoring his previous question. "Are you okay?”

"Why do you ask?” he asks back, and it’s a thing I hate.  

I give him a one, last look, and I frown, and I shrug my shoulders, and I murmur something, but then I realize it’s probably blind leading the blind at this point. Dealing with too much of fuckedupness must make you fucked up at some point surely. And this is what happened with Juergen. It’s a same thing with my mom. Only it’s partially her choice, and poor Juergen didn’t know who he was supposed to deal with in his future. Like if he would know he would probably strongly re-think his choices. 

"How far is it?” I ask again. Slightly nervous, but again not really.

"We’re getting there in 10 minutes.” 

I look around the new, small village we entered few minutes ago, and are now leaving. Few such small ones we passed, all looking same, and I get into that repetitive mood, until suddenly we pull aside, and Juergen stops the engine. I look up and the headquartes are not impressive at all. It’s just some old building, looks like lately renovated, definitely much bigger than the regular houses here, but still. The only thing that sets it apart is a huge crowd of people in front. Mostly teenagers; some paired with parents, some on their own. Somewhere deep down I hoped I will meet Daniel. 

"Everyone is staring,” I murmur to Juergen, as we pass through the crowd.

"Come on, Fernando,” he says, holding me by my arm and guiding through people. "Isn’t it what you love?”

I roll my eyes leaving that as an response to such easy provocation. Once we go in, there are plenty of people waiting in line. Most of them are sitting on plastic chairs, all set one by one, next to each other. As we enter and the door behind us loudly shuts, all eyes stare back at us. It is a feeling I’m well used to, so I don’t look down, I don’t look away, instead – I stare back with same intensity, eyeing every, single person occupying the chairs. Daniel wasn’t there.

Juergen asks out loud something similar to who’s last one in the line – though I might be wrong – but then, one kid answers and he lowers his head to my ear and says there’s a list on the opposite side of the hall. Foolish me to ever think I would go unnoticed, as they already have my name written down on some fucking list. 

I walk towards the wall, but take the opportunity to quickly scan the faces on my left. All those kids sitting on the chairs I have absolutely no idea who they are. Some look familiar, but then again, all Scandinavian people looked familiar to me. I bet if I would ask them, they couldn’t tell a difference between a Spanish and an Italian person. Or maybe it’s another one of my theories trying to excuse the blatant ignorance of mine. Probably.

Suddenly though, as I let my thoughts wander off, I quickly recognize one face. He’s standing right by the door, leaning against the wall with his back, arms crossed over a chest. He’s tall, like a regular tall. Bulky. He looks familiar. He really does. But he’s surely not the guy I fought with, surely not the one, who pulled out a gun and took a shot, and then, then as I stand by the wall, facing the list pinned down, and I side-glance at him it’s when I realize – Daniel’s _brother_. The one I’ve seen in the church, for sure, and the one I was hell sure I haven’t seen at the bonfire. Then again, who am I to trust? I spent good half an hour blowing a guy in the woods, I shouldn’t be sure, much less obliged to testify and probably say truth and truth only.

My name was seventh on the list. Perfect. I’ll spend God knows how long waiting here … _Daniel Agger._ He was eleventh. Okay. The situation got slightly better now. I was much happier, and much more excited, and I don’t know a part of me just couldn’t wait to look him straight in the eyes.

"What are you looking here for?” 

And I move my head a bit to the left, fully eyeing Daniel’s brother now. I don’t respond straight away, I just stare at him, and then I turn my head to look at Juergen. He stands across the hall, giving me a worried, very questioning look. He could not possibly hear what Daniel’s brother said, so he probably now wonders what the whole scene is about. I look back to face the guy.

"My name on the list,” I respond calmly, "but I already found it, so no worries. I don’t need your help.” I give him a full-teeth smile, and as I move to walk away, he angrily grabs at my arm, pushing me back.  

"Where’s Daniel?” he asks, and I frown.

"How am I supposed to know?” 

"Don’t play an idiot. Just tell me for your own sake.”

"I don’t know. Trust me,” I shrug my shoulders, but then I add a second later, "or don’t. Don’t trust me. If I knew, I wouldn’t tell you anyway.” 

I release myself from the tight grip and I take that step forward, but he grabs onto me once again, and before he gets to say something, I interrupt. "Don’t fucking touch me,” I nearly spit on his face, as the anger inside of me builds up, and to my deep surprise, he takes his hand away. He straightens his back, but he fixes his gaze on me; strong, serious, _knowing_.  

"I’ll leave you alone. For _now_ ,” he smiles, and it is one of those terribly ugly smiles. Like a smile is usually associated with something extremely positive, something warm, nice, cheering up. His smile is like an invitation to a brutal betreyal; there is so much lie and fakeness about it, it could be nothing else, but ugly. 

"Great. Amazing. I really appreciate the mercy,” my voice probably sounds excrutiangly boring, but I can’t help it. I heard it so many times before. Bulky, big and tall guys thinking I’ll go straight on my knees thankfully bowing my head just because they decided not to physically abuse me right this moment, but surely some time soon enough. There’s so much to be thankful for.  

"And one thing more,” he’s whispering the whole time; angrily whispering, and it’s starting to get a little funny here. "Stay away from Daniel.”

"And I’m what? A fucking gold fish to make your dreams come true?” I realize I react towards this demand way too angrily, way too loudly, but it’s been non stop. It’s been my grandma, and Nicklas, and Daniel’s father, and now it’s him. People should finally open their fucking blinded eyes and see that in this toxic, and fucked up relation is also an opposite side pulling the strings. Pulling me closer. I’m not some sort of a deluded freak, who goes after a definite no. I saw Daniel staring at me the first day I came around, the first day I went to that bonfire and met all those people. He was there. Sitting across from me. Staring for so long, and staring so intensly there was nothing else for me than to fall inside the trap, and keep getting pulled in. Keep falling further, and further inside it. But people don’t see that. They think it’s always me. Me destroying someone’s innocence. Me playing them. Well, partially it is, I’m no saint and I never proclaimed to be, of course, but I’m not fully responsible for what’s happening here.

"You’re pretty agressive as for a faggot,” he says it so proudly. There so much pride on his small lips, and on his rolling tongue. There’s so much of what I’ll probably never understand, and also have no intention to. 

"You think so?” I ask, smiling nicely. "Have you ever watched the movie Seven?” and he looks very disoriented, so I take it as a no. "There’s one scene… but don’t worry, I’m not going to spoil the movie for you. So there’s this one scene in which police officers find a women after a sexual intercourse. She was fucked with a knife-strap on. Nice, huh?” And if it was just us two in some secluded surrounding maybe I wouldn’t do it, but we’re at the police headquarters and Juergen is meters away and people are watching so I feel fully secure, and I lean in and I whisper around his ear and jaw. "So until I fucking fuck your ass with a knife, you have no idea what kind of an agressive faggot I can be.” I move back and his mouth is parted, and he breaths irregularly, but I know he’s not afraid. He’s angry. 

I stare at his face for a little, searching for something I haven’t seen before, but it isn’t there. We both look each other right in the eyes, but I feel like it’s time for me to go. Take a step back. I walk to Juergen the same minute, swallowing a lot of saliva, as my throat is awfully dry. I don’t turn my head away to look. 

"What happened over there?” he asks me, staring right at me, and then across the hall at Daniel’s brother.  

"Nothing. Just a friendly talk,” I respond smiling. "Can we sit somewhere?” 

"Yeah,” he says vaguely, still giving us both questioning stares.

We sit down on a plastic bench right against the wall. Arm to arm.

"What number are you?” he asks, side-way glancing.

"Seven. And I hope it’s gonna go quickly.” 

"I’ll wait with you,” he says, and I nod my head in response.

I take a one look at Daniel’s brother and I feel my insides sort of clenching with anger. People usually think it’s a word faggot that sets me freaking out. That calling me a cock-sucker is something I find terribly offensive. Truth is, I don’t. What makes me go crazy is when people, and Daniel’s brother is a perfect example of such people, are qualifying me as a faggot, before qualifying me as a human. _You’re pretty agressive as for a faggot_ , it echoes in my head. _As for a faggot_. So faggots cannot be aggressive. We can only be silly, colorful, skinny, and crying. We can’t be athletes, we can’t be computer geeks, we can’t be intellectuals, we can’t be boxers, we can’t be baseball players. We can only be sad imitations of something between a women and a men. Something not fully deserving respect, something not fully deserving to be just as it is. It’s same sort of discrimination as the one towards women. Females are trapped in a bubble. Don’t you dare being athletic and smart, because you may threaten men. Don’t you dare speaking out loudly, don’t you dare dressing the way you want to dress. Don’t you dare sleeping with whoever you want to sleep. What will men think? And those same men set out a trap for gay people. Worse. For gay men. They fear us, because they think we will treat them the same way they usually treat women. With harrasment, animal-driven gestures, nonsense anger. And once there is fear, there is usually hate. But for me it’s not even about hate anymore. Fine. Fucking hate me. I don’t care. Just see me as a human. But that’s probably a little bit too much to ask.  

"You don’t have to though,” I say after some time. Something about ten minutes later after his last reply. 

"What?” 

"I was saying that if you don’t want to wait, you don’t have to.” 

"Of course. I’ll leave and you will come back home with another side of your face massacred. So I don’t think so.”

I sigh in response.

"They don’t really like you here, do they?” he looks around the kids, and then faces me.

"You can be smart if you want to,” I give him the same response he gave me back in the car, and he smiles.

"Most of it is usually your fault, but this isn’t. You know?”

"This what?” I feel like I don’t fully follow.

"The fact they don’t like you here. It’s not your fault. 

I open my mouth to say an ironic _no shit, Sherlock,_ but then it sort of hits me. That unexpected gentlness in Juergen’s voice. Concern. Like after years of being blinded, he finally came to a correct realization. Of course it’s not my fault. I know that. What surprises me is that it turned out Juergen thinks the same way. Years of being angry. Years of spending shitload of money. Years of figthing with me. Years of coldness, half-word responses, unnatural gestures. Years of trying to fit into my life. Years of trying to understand my life. I always measured his efforts poorly, but the more I listen, and the more I open my own, blinded eyes, I see that some of what he does may reflect genuine feelings. May reflect that he indeed, in his own, twisted way, does care. 

"Yeah,” I answer, again with an unnatural delay. "I’m not going to shrink myself so others feel comfortable.”

"I’ve noticed,” he says and I see him half-smiling. "You’re very blatant, Fernando. Your actions don’t need any further justification. Surely not verbal one.”

"You’re way too nice. Is there anything you want from me?” I ask suspiciously, narrowing my eyes and staring at him. He turns his head to me, now sort of laughing. 

"Just once you go in there, please, watch your language. Don’t say _fucking fuck_ every second, or third word.” 

"Anything else?”

"Leave that bored expression. Put something more concerned on your face. A little bit of _I care_ visible in your eyes would change a lot.”

"But I don’t care. That’s the problem.” 

"You partially do. So you might as well work on that attitude.”

I sigh in response once again. "Fine,” I say reluctantly. " _Fine._ I’ll behave.”

Juergen didn’t reply, didn’t even utter a word. "Okay,” I roll my eyes. "I’ll do my best. Are you coming with me?”

"Why should I?”

"I don’t know. Translation maybe?”

"You really think that if grandma speaks nearly fluent English, the policemen won’t?” 

I shrug my shoulders. He makes a good point. He makes way too many good points today. I don’t say anything in response; I just keep looking around. There was obviously something wrong going on and it seemed like I wasn’t the only one to spot it. The more I stared at people, the more I realized how freaked out everyone was. People were giving each other sneaky looks, as if trying to detect who might have been the one to stir the atmosphere, to completely destroy the perfectly set out jigsaw of puzzles. I had no clue what was really happening; I couldn’t see beyond my own perspective. 

"When was the last time you saw people here being this disturbed?” I ask not really expecting anything groundbreaking to hear. I ask, because I’m really bored, and I usually ask a lot of questions. Like a lagoon of it, if I think about it. Juergen, on the other hand, seems to be picking only those comfortable to answer – a pretty regular thing adults do – and I’m set forever wondering. Usually. Though, it looks like usually is not happening today.

"Well,” he says with that low tone of voice, and I quickly turn my head to look at him, because I honestly didn’t expect a slightest of attention being shown. "There was something few years ago. Maybe ten or nine. I don’t remember well now, because I wasn’t in Denmark anymore. A house burnt down killing two men inside. Nowadays there is an empty field instead, but it used to be quite a beautiful property. It was a bit outside the village. Quite like Agger’s live, but on the opposite side. No one knew these people that well, because apparently they moved in just some time before that. I don’t remember. A year? Maybe two.” 

"But how did that happen? Was it set on fire or what?”

"No, not really. Actually, I don’t know, but grandma said it was an accident. They were constantly renovating, breaking down walls, changing electricity lines – the house was quite old when they bought it.” 

"Then why people were disturbed? Things like this happen all the time. I don’t get it.”

"Listen,” he makes a pause, as if explaining this was quite pointless and my capability of understanding not making it worth even a try. "You’re probably comparing Denmark to what you experience day-to-day back in Spain, and it is not how you’re supposed to see this country–" 

"Ha-ha,” I cut him off with my fake and ironic half-laugh. He looks at me not really getting what it meant. "The thing though is that it is not true,” my tone of voice changes to actually pretty serious within seconds. "I expected this blisfull nothingness, I don’t know, no attitudes, _nothing_ , and it is a complete opposite. It is even worse than Madrid and all the catholic schools I’ve been to combined. Okay. Maybe not really that much, but still. The nature is calming, the houses are minimalistic, but people. C’mon. People are same shit everywhere, and no ranking of less crimes, and more happy faces will change anything I’ve experienced so far.”

"Don’t you think that half of what you go through is half of what you make yourself go through?”

"Back to same fucking shit again,” I lean against the wall, face side away from Juergen. It seemed like he understands, like he just grasped the bit of unknown, learned his damn fucking lesson. Of course not. The moment was in there for a second, top three, and it is gone. 

"This,” he says calmly. "This agressivness if you don’t understand, this attitude, this complete shut down. Whatever I’ll say next won’t change a case, will it?”

"It is because _you_ don’t understand.”

Now it is him trying on the fake, half-laugh. An ironic response to the never-ending turn of our conversations. _You don’t understand_. Neither of us ever does. The clash of two complete different worlds, like chemical substances, both obviously changed during the lenght of the process, with an outcome maybe easy to define, but surely impossible to naturally digest.  

"What _I am_ trying to say, how _I_ see things, how it is from _my_ perspective, is that this country is not in reality what it claims to be on paper. This depression-free land of acceptance. And maybe, finally back to the story, the house was burnt down by someone else. By some fucking jealous assholes, who couldn’t stand non-locals posessing a beautiful property. You never know.” 

"If I have anything else to add, before you go in there,” he moves his hand toward an opened door, and a police officer with a list, reading on names, "is that this love for abusive drama you surely got from your mother.”

"And what is that supposed to mean?” I ask, side-way glancing at him, then side-way at the door as the policeman says my name and I hear the _r_ oddly falling off of his tongue.

"Life is not a TV series,” he says with a bored voice and normally I would probably start yelling my lungs out, but instead I stand up, and bite my lower lip so none of the abusive drama words come out, and I walk down the corridor.  

Easy, I say to myself on the inside. Juergen is just ninety-five percent of bullshit, and five percent of non-expected effort. Don’t ever try to take him seriously, and yes, people burn down houses of other people, because they’re jealous. Or maybe mentally fucked-up. Who knows, God, they surely do. This maybe shows up on TV series more often than we hear about it in real life, but I refuse to be summed up like this.

"Hi, morning,” I say quite awkwardly as I close the door after myself. One of them sits behind a large desk, and the other stands few meters away, just browsing through some papers. Both of them look up nearly the same second, and they nod.  

"Morning,” the one behind the desk replies, and he sounds Danish. They all sound like Juergen to be honest. Except maybe Daniel doesn’t, but this I’ll probably never know. "Take a seat,” he motions his hand toward an empty, plastic armchair and I sit down. It’s not really comfortable, but I guess this whole thing isn’t about comfort anyway.

"Can I have your passport?”

I put it down on the desk in front of him, and he takes it immediately. 

"Fernando José Torres Sanz?” and I swear I don’t think I ever heard anyone struggling this much with a final outcome being nothing more than ugly, incorrect, and if my ears were able to bleed right now, we would all drown. It took me unnatural amount of time to come to my senses and realization I have to respond. 

"Yes,” I say, sort of nicely. "It’s me,” I pause, "I think so.”

After this, he eyes me for a bit unsure of what my response may indicate, but this time he decides to let it go. I know this. I read him well so far.

"Okay, Fernando. Tell me what happened yesterday at the bonfire.”

"Not much,” I reply calmly, trying not to sound boring, agressive, ignorant, Spanish, or TV-dramatic. "I came to the bonfire late, I believe, there were plenty of people already. I got myself a can of beer, didn’t talk to anyone in particular, and few minutes later I heard a gunshot.”

"Exactly. Did you see who was shooting? Who took out a gun? Was there anyeone else who had a gun as well?” 

"I was pretty much quite disoriented, I didn’t look around, I don’t know that many people here. I have no idea who was shooting.”

His lips clenched in a line. He wasn’t angry. More like disappointed. Probably everyone answered the same way, and I don’t blame these people. Really. If I remembered a face back then, _if_ , then I surely don’t now. It’s been many hours ago; Daniel-thing happened. I couldn’t possible remember another pale face and probably a shade of dark blonde hair.  

"What did you do before the bonfire?”

"Well, I was at work. Monday I started working at the field nearby the woods. I was chopping the trees. That’s what I’ve been doing yesterday.”

He fakes a smile. "And what happened to your face?” 

I hit the fucking fridge as I was opening it in a middle of a night trying to find something which would take the after-taste of Daniel Agger’s cock. "I got in a fight,” I say instead. 

"With whom?”

"I don’t know his name. A guy I’ve been working with.”

"Why?” 

"A misunderstanding.”

"A simple misunderstanding leading to this?” 

This looks already pretty fucking fine now. "Yes,” I respond, urging a smile. 

"You don’t seem to be that much talkative,” he says a bit ironically, but then he straightens his back and looks at his partner, then back at me. Was that supposed to make me talkative? This obviously pointless remark?

"No. I’m usually not,” I lie.

"Interesting,” he says right after. "Because few kids said otherwise."

"Maybe. I don’t know. Haven’t heard them,” okay, easy, this wasn’t supposed to leave my mouth. 

"Well, we did. They said you are provocative, often offensive, and difficult to deal with.”

"Really?” I ask with a sweet smile. "That’s a first."

He lets out a quick laugh. Like, half a murmur, half a cough, I have no idea how to describe that, classify that, but it is there, and I’m sure I need to find a way to deal with what he thinks is superior to me in one throat movement. It is not, though.

"If I have to be honest, I’d rather say that it was me who felt provoked, offensed, and on top of that, had difficulty dealing with certain people.”

"We will take that into consideration,” he says and I know this is just a bunch of official bullshit. Like that one line you learn, or a joke, or something else and you just keep repating it in a time of convenience. 

"Anything else?” I ask after some time, as they both lower down to note something and the question doesn’t seem to be coming up. 

"Yes,” the policeman behind the desk moves his head up. "What did you do after the shot was taken?”

"I saw people running in all different directions and I run inside the wood. That was the closest and the most of all, a first thing I thought about. I was hiding in there for probably half an hour, fourty minutes. Can’t really tell. Then Juergen, my stepfather, he called me and picked me up. That’s it,” I shrug my shoulders knowing that I can be pretty believable if I try. 

He nods his head probably realizing there is nothing else he can ask me about. And when he opens his mouth to say something, I know he’ll just dismiss me, giving back the passport before. But he doesn’t, to my surprise.

"Agger’s family reported that after the bonfire their second son, Daniel Agger, didn’t show up. It is the only person reported missing; maybe harmed, we have no idea at this point. Is there anything you know about this boy or a place where he might be? We’re aware you’re not familiar with locals here, but if there is anything you know, _anything_ , the information would be very helpful.” 

I stare at him intensly. Right into his eyes. My face mussles are loose, I don’t clench my lips, narrow my eyebrows, I feel like for some time I don’t even take a breath, but I respond quite fast even so. "I have no idea. As I said, I don’t know many people here. I know how Daniel looks like, I’ve worked with him for the past days, but I don’t think I saw him at the bonfire. Everything happened quickly. I think few people run inside the woods as well, but we all went seperate ways. No one sticked together.”

As I finish speaking, I still keep looking right into his eyes. I don’t smile. I don’t let irony be visible. Lies noticable. Nothing. Nothing that would betray the fattest lie I sold in a long time. And I feel like, when he stares right back at me it is the test of my credibility. If I look away, he’s going to know I lied all the way. He’s going to know something is up. He wouldn’t know what, but he would know something’s surely not the way it is supposed to be. But I don’t give in. I hold it on, I do well, and he nods his head finally, cracks a sudden smile, writes something down. I know I’m fine. At least on the paper. If anyone testified otherwise, if anyone said they saw us running in there together, he would fire it right back at me this time now. Turns out no one said a thing. Turns out those who were after us, or maybe, just after me, are not going to use police to hunt me down, are not going be playing easy and fair cards. Either they didn’t testify yet, or they already did and lied as well. 

"Is everything alright, Fernando?”

I look up, quite surprised. "Yes,” I murmur, "yes, sure,” I repeat, much louder now. 

"Okay. Fine. Here,” he hands me back the passport. "Thank you. You can go now.”  

I stand up, and I walk slowly back, but I feel them staring. Every move I make, I’m being watched. Controlled. Until I open the door, say an average sounding goodbye, and I leave. I pass by Daniel’s brother, but we don’t look at each other. The rest of people is moderately interested, I feel like much less than they were at the beginning. 

"Come on,” I say, as Juergen is moving up. "Let’s go home. I’m starving.” 

"Is everything okay?” he asks quickly, following me out of the building.  

"Yes,” I respond, and he doesn’t ask about anything more. We go through a much smaller crowd now outside, and both get inside the car.

"What did they ask about?” he looks at me, instead of starting up the engine and driving away. I hate when he does that.

"Basics. What did I do, if I saw anyone, if I possibly recognized a person with a gun. Boring,” I reply, and he keeps looking at me for some time more, but then he straightens, and moves, and starts up the car, and I sigh with obvious relief. 

We fall back into not talking and it’s comfortable. Finally something is. I lean back into the seat, and  try to mute all my thoughts, and voices, and possible problem solutions, and at some point, I don’t even know why, I open my mouth to say, "They also said that Daniel Agger is missing. I don’t think it’s been twenty-four hours now, but still–”

"Yeah, but that’s not really a problem,” he says and I make a face. Automatically. At this point in my life I can’t control it. I just make a face.

"What do you mean that’s not really a problem?”

"He does that all the time,” he replies casually, side-way glancing at me. I don’t know who’s more surprised now. Him by the fact I see it being problematic, or me by the fact he does not see it being problematic.

"What do you mean he does that all the time?"

"Since he was small they always had problems with him, cause he would disappear. Whenever I was coming back here for vacation, usually a longer period of time, then there wasn’t any of my stays not marked with Daniel Agger simply missing. It’s not even that he’s missing anymore. Everyone knows he just _disappears_.”

I look at him with a face twisted in a most surprised manner. Like my mouth is parted, and my eyebrows narrowed, and I feel like Juergen is just talking utter, blatant crap, cause what the fuck do you mean by someone just disappearing from time to time? 

"Wait, but then, if it’s so common why are they mentioning it now?”

"Are you asking me? I have no idea. Probably because the gun was involved, and it is quite an unusual situation in general, so Dan missing is just maybe something explanatory to the case. No idea, really.”

"What exactly do you mean when you say disappear?"

"No one knows what’s happening with him. For a full twenty-for hours, two days, three. I remember him being small, you’re both same age, so when you were ten, or eleven, you weren’t coming here yet, but I would be coming back for vacation. He was just gone. I don’t think anyone till now knows what he’s up to, when he’s gone. But that shouldn’t be your problem." 

"Why?”

"You don’t even know him, do you?”

"Well,” I say, hoping a silly chuckle won’t leave my throat, but I’m too much in an odd kind of awe to manage this kind of reaction. "Not really. I don’t know him. I’m friends, _sort of_ , with Nicklas only, but I find it weird. It’s a tiny place. Where would he be hiding?”

"I don’t think he’s hiding. Seriously, Fernando, I have no idea. I always just stayed away from this.”

"Why doesn’t he speak?” I realize what kind of a fool I’ve been before not to ask this question. 

"Some throat problems. He was always this sick kind of a kid. Staying home. Not socializing. Very tight with his older brother. Maybe not anymore, but as long as I remember. Once we found out, I offered his family that a specialistic organization in Copenhagen will take care of Daniel. If you react fast enough, diagnose well, you can fight to get back the voice again. It is a long, and tiring process, but in many cases doable. They never really responded, though. No idea why.”

"Are you serious?”

"Yes. I felt like I offended them by even proposing, so since that I decided it wasn’t my kind of business to push people into that. You need to want to receive help first.”

"Did you ever ask Daniel himself?” I don’t even know why I asked this. 

"No, he was like ten, nine or something like that. I really don’t remember now. I dealt with his father back then.”

"Oh, okay,” I respond, still deeply surprised by the whole turn of the events. "Seems pretty understandable.” Or maybe no? How fucked up do you have to be to refuse help for your own kid? Why would you even? 

"Don’t bother yourself with it. It’s not our business.” 

I look briefly at Juergen, and I nod my head. We don’t speak for another few minutes, until I suddenly realise there is something I need to say. "Juergen, listen,” and he turns his head. 

"Yes?”

"I’m not saying this being hundred percent sure, but I’d like to, I don’t know, try. See how things shape up.”

"With?”

"Swimming,” I say calmly staring at the road displaying in front. „Fuenlabrada offer.”

"Really?” he asks with a cheerful smile.

"Yeah, I guess so.”

"What made you change your mind?”

I give him a questioning look. "I never said no in a first place.”

He shakes his head, smiling underneath his nose. We take a turn in a street I finally start to recognize. 

"You’re impossible, you know that?”

Thankfully I also start to recognize myself. 


	9. 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe few of you must say _no way_ as you see this update, but actually yes, it's happening. A new chapter in less than eternity. So, it's quite long, a bit spicy, with a usual touch of madness. I obviously hope you enjoy it, and that you have a blissful Sunday! 
> 
> Love.

 

 

It is six thirty in the morning, Monday, and I’m staring at beautifully boiling egg. I turn my head aside for a second, and as my eyes focus on a big, gym bag I silently go through all necessary equipement, just to make sure I don’t forget anything since forgetting things in the morning is my sure specialty. 

I take another sip of hot water with lemon and I stretch my back by straightening it. Feels good. 

“I think it’s ready,” I hear Juergen’s voice right by my ear, and I feel him lurking across my arm.

“Probably,” I murmur back, taking the pot off the stove. 

“You sure you don’t want me to give you a ride?” he offers, as I pour cold water inside the pot. I look up, and I shake my head.

“No,” I say reassuringly, “It’s fine. I’ll just bike.”

“It’s 18 km’s away. You’re going to be exhausted.”

“No, really,” I tell him, “I need a good warm-up. Didn’t do proper cardio in over two weeks. I thought about it. I’ll bike back and forth, swim for two hours in the morning, and two in the evening. I’ll rest in the middle of the day.” 

Juergen stands few meters away, leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping on his coffee. He stares at me with visible doubt in his eyes, and I know I should expect a lecture in a minute or two. 

“Listen,” he says, and an amused _here we go_ speaks up in my mind, “you know how this works. A week of exhausted muscless will cut you off from training for another month. You can’t risk that.”

“I know what I’m doing,” I respond calmly, placing food on the plate, ignoring his gaze as I walk towards the table in the dining room, sit down, and start eating. That’s only when I look up to face him, and I’m not surprised to see his facial expression still being same. “I’m used to training for six, or even eight hours per day. This is nothing.”

“Of course you are, I’m well aware of that. I’m also aware that you were training for six or eight hours at the very peak of your form, and I’m sorry to say that, but you no longer are at the very peak of your form.”

I stare at him speechlessly, chewing my food. This is not exactly what I’d like to hear at this hour, this particular day, when I prepare myself for a second try-out. I still didn’t confirm out loud I’m doing it. I’m just trying to do it. 

I lower my gaze, digging fork inside the deliciously soft egg. _You no longer are at the very peak of your form._ So what? I’ll be soon. I won a goddamn European championship half a year ago. I can do this. I have to do this; that is the difference.

“So?” he demands, and I look up again. “Should I go upstairs and take the keys?”

“Don’t you have anything else to do?” 

“I have a conference call at eight thirty with my surgery interns, but that’s in two hours,” he eyes me expectedly.

“Great,” I murmur underneath my nose, more to half the egg placed on the fork, rather than to him, but I know he’s well conscious of my truly joyful responses by now. “I’ll bike,” I say finally, staring at him. He stares back, nods his head in that familiar manner, and shrugs his shoulders after all.

“Fine. Just don’t ask me in three days if there’s anything I can give you or prescribe you, because you can’t move out of bed.”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t worry. I won’t,” I fake a smile afterwards, and he turns around to put the mug inside the sink. He shots me a one last glance, and then walks across the dining room to soon disappear upstairs. 

I finish eating not late after that, and I clean the table. I check the bag once again for a towel, shower gel, Speedo’s bodyskin, jammer’s, legskin – why would I even need all three different – oh goggles, and swim cap. I hate that. I’ve always hated that. But I still tug it inside, and I zip the bag. On my way outside the house, I grab my earphones, jacket, keys, and I leave.

It’s close to seven now, and it’s extremely bright outside. I take a deep breath of fresh air, and I cherish that moment. It’s been only a week, a little more than that, and I’ve already learned about the soothing power of taking calm breaths, and letting your lungs be filled with rush-free oxygen. Sounds stupid, even to me, but when I start thinking about all those early mornings I’ve went through back in Madrid, I don’t think I’ve ever came across such liberating, and hopefull feeling based only on the kind of oxygen I’m breathing in. 

Saturday afternoon, few hours after my visit to the police office, me and Juergen drove down to the center. It is placed approximetely sixteen, eighteen maybe, kilometers away from our village, and it does indeed look like a rich-kids rehab. There are two buildings. One, which functions basically as a hotel; exception being that half of the occupants is professionally trained staff, and their rooms are changed into expensive looking office’s. Instead of a conferance hall there is a common room; a place which clearly reminds me of all movie rehab-scene’s, something perfectly pictured in Fightclub. Then, the second building, linked to the first one with a massive, glassy passage, is something more of my interest, and something I’ve decided to come to every single day here – it is an activity facility. There is a professional gym, then heaven for all the track and field athlethes, and finally a swimming pool. I was deeply surprised, when informed that the pool has Olympic standard sizing, and 10 full lines. All availiable for my needs in selected hours. I could train early in the morning, from eight till ten, and then from six till eight in the afternoon. Once we’ve finished the tour around, and Juergen signed few documents, exchanged the number of bank accounts, and made me realize that this, surely, is for real, I couldn’t really get over a fact how such a small country, with a tiny population, and definitely more than few fucked-up characters, could develop their system this strongly, coherently, and precisely. I would never try to diminish Spanish involvement in sports, but I clearly remember that once I started swimming when I was seven years old, the local neighbourhoud facility had a swimming pool with two lines sized probably like a bath-tub. And no locker room. Here; a village something like hundred kilometers away from the capital city has an Olympic sized pool, trendy and minimalistic finishings, and professionally trained staff to deal with international teenage craziness a building away. 

When we got back home early evening that same day, I asked Juergen to write an e-mail to the Fuenlabrada team manager. I agreed to their offer, even though I knew I deserved better. And even though I knew I deserved better, I also knew that the lately turn of events made it impossible for me to ask for more. I played it cool, and kept telling Juergen that I’m still not sure, whether I want to do this, but it was all bullshit talking. Even if Fuenlabrada was below my level, I had no other choice. Or I did. I could quit swimming, but I didn’t come this far to back off now. 

Sunday was my first day of training, and because of the early, morning hours I had the pool for myself, I was able to gladly skip the mass. Juergen insisted on giving me a ride, and then picking me up, as the mass would finish. I agreed, remembering all the turns of the route on our way there, so next time, and every other time I would be able to go by myself. Not that Juergen would ever knowingly let me drive his car, or any other car, but biking was still an option. I spent half the morning thinking about Daniel, and wondering whether he went to church, whether he got back home safely, whether I would ever see him again. Yet Sunday finished quite early for me, as I went to bed around ten in the evening. Obviously exhausted. And no, I haven’t seen Daniel that day.

Music is now loudly blasting in my earphones, as I speed down the road, passing by same looking trees, fields, and signs. As ten kilometers go by, I start feeling the familiar pain. Tension building up inside of my musscless. That’s when people normally stop to pause, to regain energy, but I’ve learned to go beyond that. Pain, at least the physical one, is a part of my daily routine. It came to the point, when I like if it hurts, and I’m disturbed if it doesn’t. And the more that line goes inside of my head wires, the more I realize that it seems to be a correct summary of _me_. Me probably as a whole. 

I get there when it’s twenty to eight. I pin and lock my bike, push my gym bag on left shoulder, and walk inside the center. I could bike up till the second building, and get inside immediately without having to pass through the first one, but somehow this doesn’t happen. So I walk inside through the glass, automatically opening door, and I force back an ironic chuckle, because this surrounding is surreal. I became a cynic inside of my own world, didn’t I? 

“Come on, _boys_ ” I hear from afar; voice deep and loud, words sneaking out in provocatively ironic manner. It is also difficult for me to fully understand, because everything comes with a tough accent. Words cut in half, disappearing inside of the throat. 

I stop in the middle of a big hall, and I listen to the range of all different voices now suddenly seeping out, and I see the room; big one. Door open. Looks like a lecture hall, but it is only when I come closer, steps quiet and easy, that I notice it isn’t. It is just a regular room, fancy looking, sure, as everything here, but it looks chill. Zone for comfort, and uplifting vibes. I spot that immediately, as the people inside – _boys_ – they all occupy their desks with a non-formal manner. They laugh, talk, gesticulate; they maybe look quite odd, like I can’t really find a pattern, matching link between them, so if I would have to find a constant I would say it is the undeniable diversity of their faces, and maybe age. 

“Are you lost?” 

I keep staring, until I realize that all those boyish faces are turned towards me, looking with interest, and silly, sardonic smiles. They question me, burning holes in my skin one by one, with how much of blatant curiosity they have in their eyes.

I move my head to find the source of that awkward sounding voice, and I suddenly see him. He leans against the windowsill, proping up on both of his hands. He is gorgeous. 

“Uhm, me?” I ask stupidly, turning head both sides, not really sure, whether that question was directed towards me. 

“Yes,” he replies matter-of-factly, and even the way he pronouces _yes_ sounds like a logical quiz I was always way too frustrated to understand. “You seem to be lost.”

I quickly scan the faces, and they are no longer curious. They are mocking.

“Actually… yes,” I lie, straightening my back, grunting loudly. I focus my gaze on him. “I’m looking for the swimming hall.”

“Straight up through the hallway, then down the passage. That’s the sport facility,” he explains, and I nod my head. 

I turn around from the door frame, right where I was standing and horrendously staring the whole time, but then as I’m about to take a quick step further, I turn my head back and I smile, uttering charm and playfulness as I purposely stare only at him, ignoring the rest of the group. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to disturb the class.”

He smiles underneath his nose; a smile probably invisible to others, but noticeable to me. Not because it was a particularly melting smile, even though it surely was, but this smile was nothing else, but knowing. Knowing what I just said was a lie.

Walking away, I fasten my pace, realizing that in less than ten minutes I need to be already in pool. My muscless warmed up, just in need of a quick stretch, and I’ll be ready to sink in. 

In the changing room, I quickly throw my bag on the bench, open one of the lockers and push my jacket inside. I get rid of my clothes one by one, and as I stand there naked, I take the legskin out of the bag. The one I have here is made out of a much less expensive material than the one used for serious competition. These swimsuits, along with bodyskin and jammer’s, are a typical must-have of anyone, who practices swimming. At this point in my life, after being involved in this sport for nearly eleven years now, I think I had hundred of these. As well as goggles, swim caps, different kinds of towels, and moisturizing creams, as water literally drains the life out of your skin. 

I leave the bag open, with my phone just thrown inside, and couple of other useless things. I grab the towel, goggles, and a cap. There are two doors in the locker room. One leading you back to the corridor, with rest of the sports facility, and the other, much bigger, opens up directing you to the pool, which is massive and terrible empty. As every barefoot step I take, sound echoes inside of the walls, leaving me with a knotting feeling. It is so easy for me to close my eyes, and see this scenery looking much different. Maybe not the pool, cause they’re always nearly same, with few details varying. I just see my previous team. A group of eight, teenage boys. Slim, athletic, loud. We were always loud in the mornings, before the six am practice. Coach angrily screaming, as he enters the hall, trying to shut us up. He calls out Juan, and Juan never stops to smile, even when he knows he’s on to be dipped in the biggest bowl of shit. Hundred and twenty push-up’s Juan, the day always starts. We all laugh, and Juan just leans down onto the freezing tiles with a silly grin, starting to push himself up, and down. Then it is Javi, because Javi never takes the push-up’s seriously. Hundred and twenty? He claims to have a capability of doing five hundred in one go. I remember there comes a morning, when coach wants to see that too, and Javi fails terribly at something close to three-hundred and eighty. He is dismissed for the rest of the day, asked to never bullshit again. Few others were also sentenced for some sort of additional, and warming-up activity, until the coach moves on to me. He doesn’t say much; our relation during the trainings is based usually on gestures only. His head moves in direction of the pool. _Sidestroke, two-hundred meters._ I don’t even oppose. It is his way of pointing out best swimmers in the team. His way of saying that you’re my priority, and I don’t want you to be joking around, don’t want you to be wasting time. Additionally to me, he also picks two other boys. Sometimes three. 

I open my eyes, and the reality hits me. I’m not in Madrid anymore, there are none of my teammates, there is no couch. It is just me, and an empty hall. No one telling me what to do, no one shouting back at me, no one pointing fingers, no one angrily throwing a towel, asking me to leave. I could easily skip that, just go these few steps back, sit in the shower for two hours. This empty hall feels like two things. One is a sure failure, creeping on my back, laughing histerically to my ear. Where the fuck did you find yourself? Here? What did you bring with yourself? Crap meaning trophies? A tryumph of actually what? Would a true champion be standing this hopelessly? With no guidance, no professional staff? The second thing is hopeful. It whispers softly to my ear; sounds like calm, and reassurance. Pushes me forward. Smiles at me. Everything will be fine, I hear.

I do, finally, start walking. I throw the towel on the tiles, and I sit next to the pool ladder. Slowly I dip my legs inside, and I don’t feel the cold. Maybe a bit, but the legskin protects the body from heat loss. I put down the goggles, and the cap. Not now. Not yet.

A second of distraction, of letting my thoughts wander, and I see Javi on the opposite side of the pool. I see myself standing in front of him. We argue. It is two weeks before the European juniors championship. He didn’t get on the team. Out of us eight couch picked the strongest four. Javi was really good, damn, he was good. We competed every, single day. Every single training. Every single time both of us got inside the pool. Javi was also mentally stronger. Like a machine programmed to execute best time, best technique, best style. I was mentally fucked. Incapable of providing same excellence on the toughest level, and if Javi swam like an immortal, Greek god, I was a figure of incompetence, always way too influenced with emotions. I either beat him consecutive times, or I lost tremendously. There was either every fibre of my heart involved, or not single one. I swam high on adrenaline, high on spirit. High on want, need, desire to win. I couldn’t possibly be programmed, I couldn’t be scheduled. Coach chose that, and Javi couldn’t understand. When I stand in front of him during that fight, I know he wants to punch me in the face multiple times. He probably also wants to push my head inside of the water, and make me choke on my own tongue. He hates me like he probably never hated anyone before, but he doesn’t do any of those things. His lips clench, and it seems like he doesn’t even breathe. Yet he opens his mouth finally, and he says, _you’re a disgusting piece of shit_. He already knew back that time I was fucking around with the coach. 

I slide down the verge, and water immediately pulls me inside. A million of bubbles suddenly appear in front of my eyes, and I don’t hear, or see Javi anymore. There’s nothing else except for my own heart beating. Nothing except for the sound of my blood pumping inside the veins. I think it’s around twenty, maybe thirty seconds that I keep myself underneath, and when I finally release my body from the water pressure clench, and I break through the sheet, I let out a loud scream, as to try freeing my lungs, throat, but most of all, my sick mind. I hear the scream bumping against walls of the hall, but until it quietens down, I breath out, and sink down again. It is so blissfull underneath. Quiet. It’s just the infinity of bubbles. 

I swim to the ladder, suddenly pushing myself up on it, and loudly breathing in, and out. My hair is wet, as in a blink of a moment I didn’t think to put on the cap, ugh, fuck the cap. I grab the goggles, and put them on. I can’t stand being outside, otherwise my own mind was on to torture me. So I put the goggles, and throw myself back inside the water, swimming up to the starting point. 

I think for good half an hour, forty minutes, I just swim back and forth. Mostly sidestroke, but I don’t focus on any kind of special technique. I swim to forget, and to keep my mind occupied. Each time I loose concentration, or I feel like I start to weaken, I tell myself, _make it to the wall_. Just make it to the wall. Physical excersise is, after all, nothing else than a mental battle. Surely some of physical boundaries may at some point stand in a way, but what holds the final outcome is your mind. Bruce Lee once said that there are no limits, only plateaus, and that we need to go beyond them. Truth is, if you train your mind to believe it can surpass any obstacle, it will. And once your mind is in a clear symbiosis with your body, that’s when you win. That’s when miracles happen.

So the voice in my head keeps saying make it to the wall, but obviously there comes a time when my lungs loudly protest. I take one, irregular breath, I don’t move my head properly, and it takes just few seconds until my mouth fills with water, and some of it goes down my throat – truly one of the worst nightmares for a swimmer. I immediately start coughing in order to get rid of the chlorinated substance, but it doesn’t get better. I swim to the side wall, proping myself up on elbows, spitting saliva and water on the tiles. Once it is gone, an awful aftertaste tickling my throat, I take the goggles off, close my eyes and hide my head in-between my arms. Juergen was obviously right. I was exhausted. Irregularity of breaths is a first sign of your lungs incapability. Of your own incapability, frankly speaking. First thing they try to teach you, when you start swimming is how to keep your inhale and exhale process balanced. Without that, you won’t be able to move further on.

I push myself up from the pool, and I sit on the verge, only half the length of my legs now dipping in water. I breath slowly. In and out. Again in, and again out. I have to admit, I honestly thought it will be slightly easier. I never took an over two-weeks break from training and proper dieting. My bad. I know. I realize it will take some time until I find my inner peace, and most of all, until I find peace within this place. 

I stand up, and I grab my cap and towel on the way to the locker room. I’m done for this morning. I still have eighteen kilometeres to go back home, then I’ll rest, massage my legs, take a nap…

“Holy fuck!” I nearly scream, as the door spring open, and there’s someone sitting on the bench. “What the fuck!” I say angrily, throwing my things on an opposite bench, staring at the stranger’s figure, half the face hidden in the dark shadow of the hoodie. “I have this locker room and the pool for myself for nearly next hour, so what…” and suddenly my voice dies in the middle of the sentence, as the person pushes back the dark hood, and I recognize Daniel. 

I stand there staring at him in awe. Not really terrified, just in shock. “How do you…?” I look at him questionably, then at the other door, obviously open, I didn’t lock it, but that’s not the case. “How did you I know I’m here?”

And before he manages to gesture anything, I spot a dark, violet bruise unerneath his left eye. Left eyebrow cut open. I don’t move though. I stand there. Water dripping. We both stare at each other. He still sits on the bench, back leaning against the lockers. A backpack next to his right side. He doesn’t look concern, afraid, stressed, surprised, sad – nothing. There is this awkward emptiness playing on his face, and I have no idea how am I supposed to adjust myself to that.

“I know answering questions is not really your thing,” I say ironically, “but I’d like to know how did you find yourself here, and how did you know I was here, and…” I don’t finish my sentence, because I wanted to ask him what happened to his face, yet after years of struggling with many disformed features, I know it is better not to ask. 

He lowers his head, and I know it means he doesn’t want to talk. It doesn’t take a genius to recognize wandering, and shy eyes, a forehead that wrinkles with difficulty, and mouth that never opens. 

“Fine,” I tell him, as I grab my towel, my other things, and I move to the other bench. The one he’s sitting on. And the one where my gym bag is. I open it taking out shower gel, and a dry set of clothing. I stare at him, obviously, side-ways. And I notice he does the same. 

I’m willing to leave him here, I’m willing to go take a shower, and be fine that if I come back he might not be here. I’m really fine with that. But there is a part of me. Of course, the one that is much more stupid, the one that never listens, the one that never takes responsibility into account. The one that wants him more than anything else nowadays. So I sit down next to him, drying my face with the towel. My hair. My arms. My torso. Legs are fully covered with spandex. 

“Why did you come here?” I demand, I need to know. I turn my hide to his side, staring at his face. He doesn’t look at me, he looks in front. The bruise is not that big, though, it must have been few days before. And the eyebrow is not stitched. “You need to stitch it,” I say, and he looks a bit disoriented, so I move my hand up, and I wasn’t going to touch him, just wanted to show him more non-verbally what I’m talking about, but he suddenly grabs onto my hand, and cuts my movement off in the middle. He holds my hand, but not gently. “Hey,” I snap, releasing from his tight embrace. “Fucking easy. I didn’t want to touch it. Just wanted to show you, that your slit open eyebrow needs a make over.”

He looks embarrased, as he takes his hand down, and I see his chest rising, and falling down chaotically. 

“Can you answer my question?” and it is only when he moves his head to my side, looking right into my eyes. “How did you know I was here? Did you follow me? Do you spy on me?”

And he keeps staring, and I swear, a part of me just wants to hit him. Start choking him. Fight against his chest. Why is that I feel so absurdally small next to him? Why he can’t just say one, god-fucking-damn word? 

“You really fucking piss me off,” I break the eye-contact, slumping against the lockers. I look at the empty space in front, breathing in and out. I still feel this chlorinated water in my throat, I still feel tired. His presence doesn’t make me feel any better. If anything, from what I discovered, it makes me feel just more. As if you’d take every emotion, feeling, sensation and then just multiply that. By ten or hundred.

I ignore him for as long as my own curiosity allows me, but then I feel something against my knee, and I look down. A black notebook. Open. Pages without lines, and his ugly handwriting. 

_“I saw you here Saturday with your step-dad. By accident. I wasn’t spying on you. Then Sunday evening I was going back home, I cross this place often, and you were leaving. I stopped, because I wanted to approach you, but you didn’t see me, and your step-dad was waiting outside the car. I overheard him asking if tomorrow you need to come the same time, and you said from eight till ten in the morning.”_

He didn’t write that just now. He wrote it before. He was prepared. He planned the whole thing. And as I turn my head now to look at him, I say, “I don’t know if I should feel flattered, or you’re just a psycho.”

He smiles, and I suddenly understand why people often say you can fall in love with someone’s smile. I’ve noticed it before, but now he sits so close to me, an arm away, and the light is bright, ugly bright, exposing, and I see his face twitching, and he has those little, tiny holes on sides, like dimples, but then again not really, because it is just the way skin spreads around his lips, and it is only now that I notice the insane amount of freckles, and first it looks like it’s just the upper cheeks, right underneath his eyes, but it isn’t. They cover his entire face. 

“You have like a million of freckles,” I say quietly, truly amazed, and his eyes suddenly narrow. He doesn’t get it. “What? No, nevermind, I just…” I think I feel embarrasment creeping in, so I look aside. Quickly I straighten my back, and fix my gaze back at him. “As I told you,” my voice tone gets back to its regular sounding, “your eyebrow needs stitches. Otherwise it’s gonna grow back into a hideous shape. And even if it does, it is so easy for it to re-open again,” I keep telling him, staring at the eyebrow, ignoring his gaze. “I could at least cleanse it now, they have this first aid kit here, but I’ve noticed that the closer I get to you, the further away you get from me,” we both look each other in the eyes, and it seems like finally none of us has an intention to break-away the contact. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to kiss you,” I smile provocatively, remembering how he would turn his head each time I would try to place my lips on his. 

He looks at me with something in his eyes I can’t easily grasp, with something that isn’t quite fully sad, but not really happy either. I know he recognizes my cheeky smile, I know he sees the provocation playing on my lips, my constant await for his move. Or least, approval. But something flashes in his eyes. Something for a brief moment comes on his face, and I know this isn’t the right moment. Just like Friday evening in the woods wasn’t the right moment for a blow-job, yet it happened. It happened, because I pushed him to do it. Because I selfishly thought that if I like it, any other queer probably does too. 

I lean against the lockers with the right side of my body, staring at him, as he stares back at me. “Saturday morning I had to testify,” I tell him, and he nods his head. “I told them few things. Mostly truth. I hope you’ll forgive me I didn’t go into details about how I sucked your cock in the forrest,” and he looks slightly embarrased, a bit ashamed, but the corner of his lips rise in a gentle, quite ironic smile. 

Suddenly I stand up and walk to the main door, the one leading to the passage hallway. I lock it with a quick move, leaving the key inside. As I turn around, I see his puzzled expression. What I also see is the way he looks at me. Or more precisely, the way he stares at me. I wasn’t embarrased, quite the contrary, I loved the appreciation spot. I was used to being half-naked around people I didn’t know well. Hell, fully naked too. That spoiled, egocentric part of me enjoyed the show truly. It is one of those awful characteristics of people, who know how attractive they are. And, shamelessly to say, I was one of those people. Dark, blonde hair. Toned, and well sculpted body. But most importantly; _confidence_. There’s nothing else in this world that is more beautiful, more appealing, more sexual than a human being well-aware of its worth. Of every inconsistent feature their body has, of every flaw. Every ugly scar. Every undesirable mark. Confidence comes from accepting what you think you don’t have, in order to embrace what you already do. Beauty is just a concept, and it either damns you, or favors you. The trick is, to people disbelieve, that you get to choose. And obviously, I choose the one that favors me. 

As I walk back, instead of sitting down next to him, I decide to stand. Daniel looks up slightly confused, but there is also something else in his eyes. Something speaking much louder than confusion. It is want. 

“You used to swim too,” I start, taking a step further, “so you know I don’t wear anything underneath these,” and I see how he swallows back. I move my feet toward his, and I push against it. His legs, without resistance, now open quite wide. At least wide enough for me to stand in-between. “Give me your hand,” I demand, but with gentlness in my voice. I keep my palm open, until he slowly reaches it. “You can touch me if you want to,” I say, moving my head slightly to the side. Expecting. Watching him. And as I move my own hand away, I’m a bit surprised to see how he places his own on my lower torso. 

For few seconds, maybe fiften, he doesn’t do anything with the hand. He doesn’t even look up to match with my gaze. He just keeps his hand on my wet body, slowly now, very slowly, moving down. It is like a sweet torture, and I let my eyelids roll close. His long fingers trace from my navel, down to the tight line of my spandex legskin. I feel as he pulls the material, and a bit of his fingers curiously slide inside. I clench my lips, as the combination of my warm abdomen with his cold hand sets the unexpected amount of shivers down my spine. Suddenly, his hand breaks away, and I open my eyes. He smiles underneath his nose, as he places both of his hands on my knees, going up the thighs, digging the fingers into the flash. Now it feels like I want to rip off the material from my legs. Free the skin, let him leave the scars all over the insides of my thighs. I start breathing loudly, as both of his hands now come very close to my crotch. And I let out an unexpected moan of disapproval, as he purposely misses the spot, moving up.

“Fuck you,” I hiss, biting on my lower lip, and he looks up, a crooked smile on his face. I was about to say something else, but his hands reached my nipples, and he started rubbing against them with open palms. This feels damn good. Even better, when he scratches, and it hurts for a little, pain sweet, and encouraging. I move closer, seeking friction, and his arms fall down, embracing my waist, pulling my closer, so close, that suddenly I feel his lips on my torso skin, and I murmur. It gets incomparably better, when his hands cup my ass, and his fingers agressively dig into my skin. “Please,” I somehow plead, I know I do. “Fuck me here,” I pull at his hair, yanking his head back, so he’s forced to look into my eyes. “Or let me fuck your mouth,” and he takes a deep breath, freezing. I see how his lips part, and I see how he licks them. “Don’t lick your fucking lips like that,” I still keep pulling his hair, as he smiles, _this asshole_ , and in the haze of a moment I release the grip, moving on to his jeans.

“Take this shit off from me,” I say angrily, as I pull at his belt, and I’m glad to see it easily opens. He struggles with my legskin, as the wet spandex gets nearly glued to my skin. It doesn’t also help I’m fucking hard, as I wasn’t in weeks, but finally, Daniel furiously pulls the spandex down and I’m naked. I release one foot, then the other, and I push the legskin aside. He looks obviously overwhelmed, even to the point that he didn’t take the jeans off, and I had to pull them down now. I didn’t give two shits, about fulling undressing him. I didn’t need him naked. I just needed his cock against mine. So as his boxers were dragged down to the line of his knees, and he was sitting comfortably on the bench, I sat down on his lap, moaning loudly.

I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling myself closer. I’m still not moving, even though I feel his hands agressively squezzing my asscheeks. This feels both like heaven, and hell. “You know,” I murmur to his lips, with an obvious difficulty, and an irregular breath, and he balances his head back and forth, and to the sides, trying to avoid a kiss. “If you weren’t that much of pussy, I could be riding your cock now,” and I want to smile with superiority, but he yanks me closer, and slips four of his fingers inside of my mouth, so abruptly that I feel them hitting my throat, and I can’t breathe, I groan somehow in between, sound hazy, and saliva drops down my jaw, as I can’t swallow it back. And this isn’t the end of the struggle, as his other hand, his right one, tightly embraces around both of our cocks, and my insides scream with pleasure. This low; lowest part of my abdomen pulsates with tension, and I need more, so I move my hips. I try to go slowly, I really do, but he starts jacking me off impossibly fast, jacks us both impossibly fast, and I can’t keep up with the pace. I can’t breathe, and I drool all over my jaw, and he stares at me. So fucking proud of sending me off for a hell paved struggle, and it seems like it isn’t enough of this torture to him, because each time my body accidently throws itself back, he agressively brings me closer, and whenever he has the chance, he digs into my skin with his fingers, and his nails, and drags them all over my back, and ribs, and suddenly he releases my mouth from his fingers, only to give more attention to my cock, and his cock, and he smears the precum on us both, and I move my head back, to get more air, to finally fill my lungs with oxygen, and then I feel him biting on my nipple. Not softly, not gently, not even provocatively. He just bites, and doesn’t lick afterwards, and bites again, and I think I hear my scream nearly like a furious outcry, and I pull at his hair, hissing into his eyes; “This fucking hurts, you cunt!” and I’m an angry sensation away from literally slapping his face, but we’re chest to chest, and I feel it is just a matter of few strokes more, a matter of few more tight and irregular moves, and I know he’s going to come soon, because he hides his face in the crease of my neck, and I think I can go a bit more, but orgasm comes right after, and my back arches with pleasure, and I give all I have into his chest, with a half scream on my lips, like an unfinished begging for more. “Oh fuck,” my hips still move, only now more gently, calmly ride into the afterphase, until he stops me, and breaks away. His back slumps against the lockers, and his eyes are closed. _Shit._ I fucking came on his shirt. Black shirt. Black shirt with my cum on. Very fucking tasteful, I tell myself.

I get up from his lap. Legs quite shaky, mind overwhelmed, heart pounding. I grab my towel, and wordlessly move in direction of showers. I was never good with the after sex thank you pleasantries, and it seems that neither is he. I could try to invite him over, but that would be too close. That would be too personal. I rather have him jacking me off, and leaving his taste all over me, than having him later take it off. There is something awfully intimate about being together, after you cum together. 

It takes me ten minutes, maybe a bit more, and once I’m done, with a towel innocently around my hips, I walk back to the inside of a locker room, only to find out Daniel’s not there anymore. The door left slightly open, key inside the lock. There is a page ripped off from the notebook, lying carelessly on the bench, next to my gym bag, and the ugly handwriting says,  _"In my head I kissed you over hundred times."_

 


	10. 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe this isn't as fast as a previous update, but I consider it still being something. Something damn unbelievable. This chapter, the 10th chapter, it is quite special. It is special, because it is written from **Daniel's** POV. Here, that's my surprise for you. At first when I started writing I never considered doing it, but then plenty of your comments featured that need to know what is going on in Daniel's head, and how things look like from his perspective, and I have to say I was very reluctant at the beginning, but then I started working closely on the future story development and I realised that after all, this chapter is very much needed. Not only to understand Daniel as a character, but to understand better what will happen next. Or, whatever happens next, you'll be able to refer back to it. Hopefully. I'm quite nervous, I have to admit. I didn't plan it, so I have no idea how it will turn out. But, to cut the bullshit talking I just want to say that I wish, as always, you simply enjoy it. Also, to simplify, this part is set a day after the bonfire. 
> 
> Dedicated to _darthenna_ , because I wrote that chapter thinking about your comments, and how many times you said you wish you knew what's inside of Daniel's head for a change. So here is that change.

 

 

  

_Saturday, a day after the bonfire, late afternoon._

I stand by the door to our house, unable to bring the key inside the lock. I turn my head around to look at the bike, which is now sort of carelessly leaning against the wooden fencing. For a minute or two I silently contemplate, whether I should just go these few steps back, get on my bike, leave again.

Instead, I turn the key inside, and I push the door open. 

It smells familiar; of tea and baked cookies. It’s Saturday after all, and Stephanie is baking. I should have remembered. As well as I should have done many other things this day, and a day previously, but I didn’t. Now, as I’m standing inside, with door closed behind me, I know there is no turning back. I breath out loudly. 

“Oh God, Daniel!” 

I turn my head to the side, and I see my sister standing in the passage, hands up in the air, dirty with a combination of various, cooking ingredients. 

Before she quickly moves in my direction, I see her wiping her hands against the worn out, t-shirt material. I was an absolute fool to think I could easily sneak upstairs unnoticed.

She places both of her hands on my cheeks, rubbing them softly. Then she looks into my eyes, and it is a look of worry, but relief as well. There is a gentle smile on her lips, and it gets larger, and larger the more she stares at me. 

“I was so worried,” she says, examining my face, but not searching for answers. Finally, she breaks the contact, and her arms drop to her sides, but the smile is still there. “I tried to busy myself with something, you know,” she talks, standing right in front of me. “And it’s Saturday, so I started baking cookies. Wasn’t enough. So I moved on to the apple pie, and thank God, you’re here,” she breathes out, nodding disapprovingly. But it is a soft nod; a nod that lacks hostility. A nod that doesn’t aim to preach, and I half-smile in a thankful response. “Come on in,” she says in an encouraging tone, taking few steps back, expecting me to follow. “You must be starving.” 

Finally, I walk after her, and as she sits down to the round table, getting back to chopping apples, I drop my backpack by one of the chairs, and I move to the counter. I open the fridge, and take few things out to fix myself a sandwich. I didn’t eat anything since yesterday, and I was starving, as my sister correctly pointed out a minute before. 

“Dad will be home around eight,” she tells me, but I don’t move my head to look at her. “He told me yesterday he’ll be working on weekends too, since we need some extra cash,” she makes a pause, and knowing her as well as I do, I secretly wait for a finishing line. “Like we always do,” she adds in a disappointed manner, but she doesn’t sound demanding nor spoiled. She never does.  She just sounds sad. 

I put some miserably looking sandwich on the plate, and I move to the table, sitting down in front of her, across the whole length. “Also,” she adds, shifting her gaze from the bowl, then right at me. “Tommas told me that—“ 

“Yeah,” I hear a rough voice from behind, and I recognize it immediately. “I told Stephanie to tell you that you need to come down to the police office. I didn’t think you’ll be home this early,” my brother walks by me, but he doesn’t turn his head to look at me. He pours himself a glass of water, and it is only then, when he looks at me, as he turns around, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Where the hell have you been?” 

“Tommas,” my sister suddenly interrupts, yet her eyes are unable to meet his, as well as mine. She just fixes her stare somewhere on the dark wood of the table. 

“Tommas what? Do you have any idea what happened yesterday?” and as she doesn’t reply, and doesn’t even look up to face him, he hisses, and continues, “Exactly. You have no fucking idea what happened yesterday, and this idiot sitting right in front of you decided to disappear. Perfect timing, Daniel. As usual.” 

Unlike my sister, I stare back at Tommas. I stare at him long enough, and it is an obvious battle that none of us wants to loose. It could be easily mistaken as one of those brotherly, non-verbal signs of natural competitiveness, but truth is, both of us know it isn’t. Not anymore, at least. 

“You know, Daniel,” he starts, walking these few steps to the table, ostentatiously moving the chair out, sitting down in between my sister and me. He puts the glass back, and shifts his gaze at me. “If you’re trying to intimidate me, then you’ll have to try a bit more. I don’t know. Maybe utter a fucking word?” 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” my sister snaps angrily, before I have a chance to react, and honestly speaking I expect her to get back to chopping the apples soon after, but surprisingly she doesn’t live up to my expectations. She goes slightly beyond that, as her nagging stare forces my brother to look at her. 

“What is wrong with me? Are you sure you’re asking the right person?” 

“Yes, I am, you ignorant asshole,” she fires back, angrier than a question before. “If Daniel can’t, or doesn’t want to speak, then I believe, he has every right to do so. Second, because I didn’t finish yet, I asked what is wrong with you, because since you got back from the police office, you’re acting like the world maniacally turned against you. And I’m sorry to break it down to you, but it didn’t.” 

She holds her breath inside for some seconds more, but finally, my sister breaths out, serving me a gentle, knowing smile. Then, she looks back at my brother, and I see she’s as surprised as I am. Maybe surprised isn’t a correct word to describe that, maybe taken aback is. Tommas is never the one to easily, and calmly back off from the fierce discussion. He is never the one to hold his tongue back, rather, he enjoys an awful lot to say things he shouldn’t normally be saying. Not to his younger brother, not to his younger sister, often not even to his father. Not to anyone. But he does, and he does enjoy that. So seeing him now like that, so plainly speechless, makes us both wonder something hit off boldly wrong. 

“Wow,” he says finally, a tone of voice ironic, but I’m not sure. “ _Wow_ ”, he continues, obvious in his disdain, and I know straight away what is coming. A bomb. Or better, an explosion. Not the quick one. Mildly big. But the one that grows, and grows beneath, taking others lack of awareness as an advantage. Then it will hit, and it will hit hard. “I would never expect such a smart observation coming from someone, who, nicely put, isn’t so smart herself,” he only nudges at her. Slowly scratching through a well-composed barrier she holds up-front. “Also, what is my concern,” he makes a pause, clears his throat, then shoots both of us a non-committing glance, “is that Daniel, the one who you so idiotically defend, is the one not deserving your defense. Also, he is the one who fucked up my evening, night, and an early morning,” and I know, I just know, that when he’s making that pause, he’s saving the last bit for a finale,”also he is the one, who some saw running inside the forest. Yesterday. After the shoot. And he run inside,” he smiles at me, then he smiles at my sister. “Run inside with that disgusting piece of crap— his new friend—  _Fernando_.” 

We all look between each other. Stephanie at me, then at Tommas. I look back at her, and it takes me an obvious second more to look at my brother. Then, with a visible superiority, he glances back at me. 

“So, the question shouldn’t be what is wrong with me, but more, what is wrong with our little Daniel,” he turns to me, and I have no idea what will come next, because it can be everything. And I’m not prepared to take any of that. “Also, I’d like to know what exactly were you doing down with him? Because I highly doubt you both were involved in a time-consuming conversation, since you can’t even pronounce your own, fucking name.” 

The worst is that there comes a moment when I can’t control myself. And because my range of reactions is obviously much limited, I’m often just forced by the channeled anger, to react in a most, primitive way.  And it happens so fast, usually, I only realize what I’ve done when it’s just simply too late to take the whole thing back. Now, it isn’t much, it’s just the sound of glass crushing down, as I furiously push the empty plate over the side of the table, and it hits it perfectly. Water spills all over his lap, the plate falls down too, breaking loudly.  For those seconds we all sit in an excruciating silence, and I feel my lips parted, I hear myself breathing in and out. Loudly. Loud enough for some to think I might start saying something soon. I won’t. 

The thing is, I expected him to laugh. Stupid. But I thought this hollow laughter will follow up. Laughter, or he’ll say something. Something with hatred, with a hurtful intention, something provoking. He doesn’t do any of those things, but instead, instead he jumps onto me with an unnatural speed, and I don’t see his hand taking an aim, I really don’t, but I feel it soon enough. It goes across my cheek, and it is a quick hit. Quick, well-trained, nearly as if made to measure. As if he wanted me to know, he planned it before. And obviously I fall down, because Tommas is my height, but bigger. He’s bulky, he’s big, he weighs a lot, he doesn’t really care about gentle moves. And he tumbles over me, and I fight back somewhere between my sister’s scream, loud and trying. Trying to separate us, but it feels like the sound of her voice just bounces back and forth. And I blindly try to hit him, and I know that at some point, in the craze of a moment, I do succeed as my hand reaches his face, and my knuckles nearly burn with a painful feeling. And I manage to move back, or so I think, I also see my sister helplessly pulling Tommas at his shoulders, but it looks like it only makes him more furious, more willing, and then something else happens, and it isn’t pain of overwhelming volume, but it is sharp and quick, and it does hurt like hell after all. Glass cuts through my eyebrow; it must have been one of those small, tiny pieces that were all over the floor, and they glued to Tommas hand, and as he made a move on me, as he punched me in the eye, cause it feels like it was my eyes, it went across the skin above the eyelid, cutting it open. 

“Are you fucking crazy?” I hear my sister’s furious scream, and I see her kneeling down next to me, reaching to my face. “God, Daniel, are you okay? Can you see me?” 

And I can, one eye normally, the other just blurry, as the blood streams down, and it does in an obvious process of getting more intense within seconds. I just see Tommas standing up, reeling, but he moves forward, and he walks out of the kitchen, leaving us both in this mess. I hear the door shutting. 

“Shit, shit, shit,” my sister repeats next to my ear, and then I see her chaotically moving around the kitchen, searching for something, gathering things. “Okay, easy, let’s calm down,” she says it, as if it was me who needed to be calmed down. “Here, Daniel,” she shoves her hands out, waiting for me to reach them, and she helps me to stand up. I do, and she pulls me by my arm to sit on the last, standing chair. 

“Fuck,” she mutters, looking closely. “You have this piece of glass in your left eyebrow. God. Fuck. What do I do?” she asks me, and I look at her, and I realize it must be an angry look, because why the hell is she asking me? I feel like fainting, and she’s asking me what to do. I feel warm tickle of blood going down my face, and she’s asking me what to do. I haven’t said a word in nearly a decade, and she asks me sounding as if she expects me to answer. 

And the moment she presses cold, wet material against the left side of my face, I feel my mind easing out. My insides pound, and I hear the blood pumping in my ears, but it gets quiet after some time. The battle is over. Or so it feels. 

“I need to take this out,” she says with an unsure voice, and I see her taking one of the chairs from the ground, putting it up, sitting down on it. She moves closer, actually very close, and the minute she touches near my eyelid my head spins to the side, because it really, fucking hurts. “Sorry Daniel, I’m trying to be gentle, but I need you to stop moving. Don’t move your head. God, Tommas is such an asshole, a few millimeters down and it would be your eye,” she explains it to me, as if I wouldn’t already realize the same thing. I bite on my lower lip, trying to channel all of my efforts into not moving. Just don’t move, just don’t, just don’t, just don’t, and it is a second, second or two that I want to rip her into pieces, as she pulls the glass out, but then she immediately presses the material against my eyes, and it gets slightly better. 

“It’s out,” she informs me, and I see her starting at that piece of glass, until she drops it, and her eyes are fixed back on me. “I mean, I think it’s all out, but you know, this needs stitches. I’m not a surgeon, but it doesn’t look nice,” and I’m just so sick of listening to her, I am thankful, a part of me is, but I just want her to shut up, and I know that the longer I’m going to stay here in the kitchen, the longer I’ll have to listen to her terrified comments. So I stand up on my shaky legs, and I feel her grabbing at my arm, and I know she only wants to help, but I angrily release myself from her grip, and I walk. Slowly, very slowly, but I take it step by step, up the stairs, until I reach the first room. Not my room. Our room. I share it with Tommas. A blissful fairytale I can’t wait to see unfolding, as he comes home today, or God knows when. 

I drop down on my bed, heart still pounding. I shut my eyes, or more precisely, the one that still is capable of such an easy move. Calm down, I tell myself. Calm down, I repeat. Calm down, I want to lull myself to sleep, but the heart is still pounding, the blood is still pumping, and I don’t feel like falling asleep. I feel like shredding something into pieces. Not necessarily my brother. If I’d get to choose, I’d choose myself. 

I relentlessly roll from side to side, pressing the material against the left side of my face whenever it slides down. The minute I feel like I might be falling asleep, my eyes roll open, and the whiteness of the ceiling annoys my nerves. I sit up, dizzy sensation suddenly hitting my head, but it goes away ten seconds later. I stare at the empty bed in front; sheets neatly folded. Few pictures glued to the wall, contrasting with the white. Those pictures have been there for years now; always in the same order, always same. Now, after all this time, they blanched, and got stains, and if I close my eyes, I can tell their stories. 

 _Iron Eagle;_ symbol of Nazi’s Germany. A proud eagle with wings spread over, and small swastika hidden in a circle of leaves beneath. Then a picture of a naked, twenty-something blonde, blue-eyed girl. Makes me feel sweet and tender, until I see her legs widely spread and her _pussy_ out. Finally, something more personal than a symbol. Something, which is surprising, nostalgic and sad in equal measures. An old picture from _Disneyland._ Though it doesn’t feature any family members, honestly, it doesn’t even feature one, human being. It’s just a picture of Disneyland gates from a rough beginning of the 90’s. I clearly remember now, how badly I wanted to go. Not because of Disneyland itself, but because it meant a journey. Some place far, some place new, some place which wasn’t home. I didn’t go, because I was sick. I didn’t go, because I didn’t deserve to go. Tommas did, instead. The other picture, well, the other picture makes me nostalgic too. It was taken in our living room. _Mom_ was sitting far end on a sofa with Stephanie on her lap. Tommas was standing on the sofa, next to Stephanie, pulling at her hair, laughing with his mouth open. I was standing right by him. Me; a pure imitation of my older brother. Always a bit skinnier, with angelic blonde hair and sharply outlined cheek-bones. Nowadays we’re not even alike. In the picture I hug him closely, and it looks ridiculous, because he’s already quite big, and I’m still a kid. He was nine, and I was five. Stephanie was seven. Mom still alive. There are few others things more; not photography’s though. Some phone numbers, one post card. Newspaper announcement. And that’s it. That’s it for family reminiscing, and memories my brother holds closely. That’s it about my brother, because my brother doesn’t matter anymore. 

I move up from the bed, and I walk towards the door, leaving our room. I take a turn in the corridor and I lock myself in the bathroom. I feel like taking a long shower, I feel like drowning. 

I stand by the sink, leaning against the verge with my hands. I take a long stare in the mirror hanging above, and I look at myself for minutes. I have a face that looks familiar, eyes that never seem to change, freckles like a sad story sprawled all over my skin. I also have a dark bruise underneath my eye, and an eyebrow that is slit open. I’ll be fine. _One day._  

I take my shirt off and I throw it back on the floor tiles. I start unzipping my jeans, and the slower I go, the more aroused I suddenly feel. Not suddenly, if I have to be honest. I’m constantly aroused. Like, horny, I guess. But horny seems to sound so primitive and it doesn’t even begin to describe how I actually feel. Horny is temporary, and sane. I’m exhaustingly aroused. It drives me mad. _He_ drives me mad. 

I throw all of my clothing to the laundry bin, and I step inside the empty bath tub, sitting down. I open the water flow, and I lean back, closing my eyes. At first I feel cold, and I’m relieved. Maybe that nagging feeling will go away, but then, the level of water obviously rises, and I start feeling warm from within. The water is of boiling temperature, and my skin burns, but for some odd reason, I like it when it hurts. I always did. I believe it is a typical characteristic of people who are destructive– whose entire life is built on a constant process of destruction and rebuilt. You don’t feel good, until you’re destroyed, and exploit, and there is nothing of you that you remember ever belonging to _you_. 

I close the water, and I drown in the sound of silence. No words, no questions, no voices. I take a deep breath and I slide down; under water. As my eyes shut, I see him. I see him pressed against my chest, wholly. I see his face from centimeter’s distance, and I see his freckles, marks, that one tiny scar across his temple, and an upper lip smaller than lower. I want to kiss him. 

Suddenly, my body drags itself up, and I chaotically breath in and out, running on lack of oxygen. I open my eyes, trying to focus the vision on one, steady point, but I fail, and I blissfully slide down again. 

There is something about his stare, I realized before. He has a vulgar, mocking smile that makes me feel like I hate his every gut, but his eyes are different. They’re dark, villain, daring. They’re so focused, and lost both at the same time. They narrow when he’s irritated, and glister, when he’s furious. He blinks too many times, when he’s scared, and he shuts his eyes, when he laughs. And when he looks at me, just when he does it simply— without being provocative, or asking a question, or expecting an answer— just when he’s looking, there comes that brief moment in which I feel like he _knows_. He sees right through me, and he _knows_. 

The second time I release myself from the warm clench of water, and I take a long-needed breath, I don’t feel that sudden relief in my lungs. I don’t feel it getting any better, than it was minutes before. 

I close my eyes again, this time with no intention of dragging my body underneath the steady surface of water. I close my eyes, because that’s when I can see him. That’s where he is vivid and very much alive– in my memories. I also see myself doing things to him I don’t think I’d find myself doing if he was next to me. I want to dominate him, and purse him, and I want to own him, and I want to fuck him, and I want to make him beg, and cry out of pleasure, and I want _him._ All of him. But the minute I’m closer, or just close enough, it seems like I can’t push against my own limitations, and fears, and barriers, and it consumes me, piece by piece, because that want, or even need at this point, is so overwhelming, is so demanding, that there is nothing else of me than to act on it. But I can’t. 

Fernando is sweet, if you’re a fool. He’s also unapologetical, if you pay attention. He will play with you, if you let him. And he’ll play you well, if he sees you enjoy the game. Fernando is very tough; surely tougher than people expect him to be. He’s impatient, quick-tempered, selfish at times. He has a set of ugly, overwhelming flaws, and there is nothing else to do, but appreciate him for it. It takes plenty of courage to expose your worst virtues up for public belittlement— that is what usually happens— but it also takes plenty of inner anxiety to make sure you cover all the good you have, with all the worst you can possibly offer. Why would you do that, I asked him in my head so many times, and the only answer I ever found remotely close to making any sense at all, is that we often hide what is good in fear that it may never be good enough. 

I leave the bathtub, once the water gets chilly. I dry my body with a towel, deliberately omitting that once, crucial spot, as to avoid any kind of later regretted behavior. I brush my teeth, comb my hair, and stay away from looking at myself in the mirror. Then I find some clean clothes I usually keep in bathroom, and I put them on. I know I no longer smell of him _,_ and I know that my body doesn’t bear any invisible traces of his touch, and his tongue, and his mouth, and I know I should feel better, but I don’t.

As I go out of bathroom, I immediately hear bits of conversation coming from downstairs, and for a split second I think it’s probably Tommas, who just got back, but then, the longer I listen, the more sure I am it is not Tommas. It is my father. 

“Is that what you cooked today?” I hear him asking my sister. Tone of voice obivously irritated. 

“I baked today,” she corrects him, sounding unsure and maybe even afraid. 

“You stayed home the whole day and the only thing you did is bake?” 

“I,” she starts, but fails to continue. “There are plenty of things in the fridge, that I can make you sandwiches with. Is that alright?” 

And before he manages to answer, cut her off, do whatever he feels is appropriate to do, I go down the stairs, steps loud and slow, and I interrupt their conversation. 

My dad stands by the kitchen counter, facing me. My sister stands in front of him, with her back to me. She turns her head, once she hears me walking in.

“Good evening,” my father says to me, and I quickly nod my head in response. It’s not even quickly, it’s quicker than quickly. A second-long nod. “You didn’t come back home yesterday evening,” he says, and I open the fridge to take orange juice out.

I walk past him, and I open one of the cupboards to take the glass out. I pour myself a full one, ignoring his statement, and more importantly, ignoring him. I turn my head side way to Stephanie, and I give her a look of concern. I see her sad and worried expression, and I want to make her feel slightly better, but I realize I’m failing now. 

“Can you look at me, Daniel?” 

And I turn my head to face him, staring right into his watery eyes. 

“I said that you didn’t come back home yesterday evening. Where have you been?”

I grab that glass of juice, and I take a sip. I focus my stare back at him, and I sip once again.

“I hope you realize that this thing you so like to do… That it has to end one day. It has to, Daniel.”

I keep looking at him, until I finish drinking my juice. Then, as I’m done, I put the glass inside the sink, and I turn my head to give him a one, last glance. I walk by my sister, and I take the steps up. Slowly, as slowly as I did before. But instead of walking inside of our room, I take an unnoticeable turn, and I lean against the wall, waiting for their conversation to continue.

“When did he come back?” my father asks Stephanie, and in the middle of his words I hear cupboard opening and closing, few things being laid down on the counter, other additional noises. 

“Just few hours ago, in the afternoon,” she replies. Voice steady and calm.

“What happened to his face? Did he come back looking like this?” 

“No, him and Tommas got in a fight,” she says, and I hear how she chops some things. My father takes the chair out, it always makes a lot of noise, and he sits down. I don’t even have to look at him, to know what he’s doing. 

“Why?”

“Tommas got back from the police office already angry. I don’t know what happened there, but he said it had nothing to do with testifying. He really didn’t want to talk, he locked himself in their room. Then, once Daniel got back home, he came downstairs, and they started talking. I mean, you know, not talking, but Tommas started saying things, and he was unusually mean, and picky, and he was saying stuff I haven’t heard him saying to Daniel in a long time. You know, about him not talking, and then Tommas started saying something about that new boy, that name I always forget, and he was bringing things that apparently happened yesterday at the bonfire, and Daniel got so angry, and he pushed the plate over the table, and it hit the glass Tommas was sipping water from, and the glass fell down, breaking, and the water got all over his lap, and then suddenly Tommas just jumped on him, and that’s it,” I can see her shrugging shoulders after that never-ending, impossibly long story. 

For some minutes there is silence, and a part of me thinks that this is the end of that conversation, that our topic will not be mentioned any more, and I want to leave, and go to our room, but then I hear my father murmuring something, as he starts eating, and I can’t quite tell. Then my sister asks him about work, and some other stuff, and she mentions Tommas leaving after the fight, and then my dad adds how he needs to talk to him, and I can stand here, listen to their pointless exchange of sentences, or I can leave. And that is what I do.

I quietly push the door open, and I shut it without making noise. I take my clothes off, I fold them and I put them on the table. Next, I get underneath the bed sheets, and I roll to lie on a side, facing the wall. The lights are dim, but I know I’m not able to fall asleep, not yet. 

I look at the cracks in the wall, I trace them with my finger, and I dig a little inside. I’m used to doing it since I was a kid. It helps me to calm down. It helps me to re-organize my feelings, and my thoughts, and come up with a plan. The problem is that now each plan I set, it doesn’t last longer than hours. I tell myself to stop thinking about him, and I can go on half an hour without thinking about him. I tell myself to stop fantasizing about him, and I can go on a day without fantasizing about him. Half a day, top. I tell myself to stop looking at him, to stop wanting him, to stop asking for him, to stop wondering, whether he wants, and whether he asks for me too. It is not a cliché of all times, it is a torture. It is pain, and it is struggle, and it makes me sick, and it makes me burn. It makes me want to kill myself, and it makes me feel more alive than I’ve ever been before.

Don’t touch yourself, I repeat in my head. Don’t think about his mouth, about his words, about his tongue, about him kneeling in front of you. Don’t think about how much you want to please him, and how much you can’t do, what he’s asking you to do. Don’t think you’re worthless, or that you’re a failure, or that you’re evil, or that you’re wrong. Don’t think you can’t have, what your heart desires to have.

At some point, I fall asleep. I fall asleep with my arm spread out, fingers touching the wall. I fall asleep to the safe sound of nothingness, hoping it will wash away my thoughts. I wake up few times; just to turn on the other side or tug the sheet over my head.

Because I sleep so uneasy, most of the sounds make my eyes roll open. So when I hear someone walking up the stairs, then loudly opening the door, I’m no longer asleep. It is a weird state of not being fully present, yet still noticing what is happening around. It’s like being hypnotized, only that you guide yourself.

Tommas smells of alcohol. Or more precisely, like a combination of vast variety.  He walks around the room, taking things out, and leaving it on the table. Then, he places keys on his night stand, phone probably too. I lie on my side, facing wall. I have my eyes now shut, but I hear his every move. I hear him taking steps in my bed’s direction, and then I feel as he sits on the verge of my mattress, and it makes the bed creak few times. 

“Dan,” he says, voice hoarse, and distant, so I figure he doesn’t turn his head to me. He just looks up-front. “I know you’re not asleep,” he continues, and then takes a deep breath. “Sorry.” 

I don’t move.

“About today, you know,” he sounds genuinely concerned. “I didn’t mean to. I was just pissed. You get it?” 

The more I shut my eyes, the more I hope it will bring me back to sleep. I don’t want to be listening to him. I don’t want to hear him. I want him gone, or fast asleep already. I want silence back. 

“You’re my little brother,” he says it in a surprisingly nostalgic tone, and there comes a second when I want to roll on the other side, and look at him, but I know I won’t do it. “And because you’re my little brother, I have to protect you from everything that isn’t right. _This_ isn’t right, Daniel. You know that. Stay away from him. You have to stay away from him, before it’s too late.” 

I lie still, breathlessly. It seems like he isn’t going to speak anymore, because he breathes steadily now. Quietly. He sits on the verge for some time more, and then I feel him standing up, bed creaking once again. He leaves the room, without shutting the door. I hear him entering bathroom, and locking it. Then water in the bathtub starts running loudly. 

Finally, I open my eyes. A dim light from the corridor comes inside, and it sheds a shadow over the wall. I see the cracks in it much better now. I move my arm from underneath the sheets, and I touch the wall with my fingers. I don’t scratch it, nor dig a bit inside. Instead, I start writing. I trace my index finger along the rough texture of the plaster, and my eyes follow. My lips move, but no sound is coming out. 

_Before it is too late._

 

 


	11. 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO SORRY.
> 
> It took me way too long to finish this chapter, and I didn't even manage to reply to some of your brilliant comments. I'm very sorry about that. Very damn sorry. I will anytime soon. I read always everything on the spot, and I grin like a 3-year old baby, but my poor time managing skills always get in a way, and best proof of that is, for example, SMQ. I don't wanna talk about that. God. Sorry. Here, I hope at least this chapter will make up for all of my worst served crap. Huge thanks for everyone still sticking with this story.
> 
> A ton of kisses!

 

 

 

As I pack my training bag, Thursday evening after a two-hour training, I realize I have developed a certain post-workout procedure. It doesn’t seem to differ much from the one I’ve had in Madrid, but since I’m routine-sensitive I easily detect any kind of circulating movement. For example, how in the past days I’ve been prolonging my usual maximum ten minutes shower to something close to half hour skin drainage. Or when I pack my training bag, just throwing everything in without much of care, I tend to turn my head couple of times more than I did days before, as if subconsciously waiting for the door to open. Finally, when already dressed and seemingly ready to go, I sit down on a bench and I set up a new playlist on my phone, as if the one I made an evening before was already flooding my senses with monotony. Deep down, I know what I do, and I know why I do it. I’m constantly waiting for Daniel to show up, unannounced and unexplained, with a joyful smirk on his lips, and a firm posture, possibly leaning against the doorframe, or waiting outside, nearby the bicycle’s stand. To anyone’s surprise, he isn’t there. He is not leaning against the door frame, and he is not waiting outside, nearby the bicycle’s stand. He is not messaging me, nor calling me – not that he has my number, obviously, again to no one’s surprise. To put it simply, he disappeared in a most direct meaning of this word, and I find myself helplessly waiting for him to come around again.

I leave the locker room some time soon, with a bag hanging over my shoulder and music loudly playing through the earphones. I walk, and I think, but then again, I don’t think about anything specific; nothing too preoccupying. Daniel is there in my head, a vivid memory of him replying like a broken record over and over again, but I’m very tired. My arms weigh a lot, my ribs hurt, my neck has a difficulty turning more to the left than it does to the right. I’m also sick of feeling helpless, kind of on pause. It has a lot to do with me always reaching out for whatever I want to have. Never wait for anything in your life, I would tell myself. Not for a title, not for a better time in trainings, not for a boy, a man, not for sex. People spoiled me to the point, where waiting is something I rarely have to do, and the consequence of actions turning slightly different this time, can and probably will be disastrous. It is obvious that I act, often before I get to think, and I do so, because I feel you loose more while you wait, letting things take its own course, than while you shape them yourself, results generally greatly varying. Daniel, whether he planned it or not, managed to narrow my action spectrum to minimum, nearly non-existent. I’m stuck in some sort of a trap, and I only get to response, reply, retort in a mild way, if first provoked and encouraged. I’m deprived of being in lead, and easily to guess, I don’t like that.

Steps easy and slow, I walk down the glassy hallway, soon about to reach the main hall of the building. Before that, I pass few diverging corridors, and rooms with closed door. Music is still blasting in my ears, so I don’t hear much, but what catches my attention is a large, slim shadow playing on an opposite wall, and I turn my head slightly, noticing that one of the rooms door is half open; quite encouragingly. I’m tempted to pause the song, come close to the door, and listen to what people have to say. Maybe even lurk inside to recognize those people. Or maybe just one person. Maybe someone just forgot to switch off the lights, before they left their office, or classroom. Oddly, before I manage to do any of mentioned before, door swing back, and the shadow on the wall is moving along. A tall boy walks outside, and when he sees there is someone else on the corridor, me to be more precise, he stops and stares. He has high, well-sculpted cheekbones, as if someone took a knife and shaped it. Round lips. Fanatic eyes. And short hair. Like blonde mili-meters of nothing. He stares, and I stare back at him. I don’t think I saw him before, surely not this angry. Not that his anger escalated this quickly just because he saw me – though we may never know – but someone must have pissed him off, while he was in that room. I feel like maybe I should be a bit afraid – sanity is not a word he goes by, sure not – but I don’t get a chance to do much, since he gives me a last, irritated look, and he turns around, walking away. As he walks, he turns his head quickly, narrowing his eyes in a recognizing manner. As if a thought just passed through his head and a message delivered said I must be someone he already heard about, or saw. Even though I’m pretty sure I never saw him before.

Taking earphones out, I go few steps forward, and as I stand in the door passage, I notice a familiar posture, a familiar face, and a familiar voice. He’s not saying anything, but the voice just resonates in my head, low and foreign, tempting and exciting. I smile, as I lean against the doorframe, propping my bag and pushing the earphones inside the jacket pocket. I wait for his head to turn aside, for him to notice me. I have that ridiculous, naive, and typical for too full of themselves people conviction that even though he saw me once and briefly, he’ll still remember me.

“Lost again?” I hear him asking, as he goes through a pile of papers placed on a desk. Standing up, not looking in my direction. Or looking, but smoothly. Delicately. Intuitionally.

And I was right. He remembered me.

“Maybe," I reply, tone of voice regular, but I feel the corners of my lips rising eventually. He probably catches that, as his head finally turns, and soon his body follows. He’s now standing straight, facing me from across the class-looking room, as one of his hands reassuring lays on a pile of documents, or God knows what it is.

“What are you looking here for at this hour?”

I shrug my shoulders in a quick response, licking my lips a second later. Not to be seductive, really, just to win me some time. “I was heading home after a training, and I saw this irritated guy walking out of here, so I wanted to know what was the cause of that irritation.” 

He half smiles, and I like the way he does it. It is so composed, so well-matched with the rest of what he represents, that I can’t help, but stare a little too long. 

“Curiosity rarely leads to anything good,” he tells me, and before I get to retort, he continues,”and that guy you referred to, his name is Martin. And one thing you need to know about Martin is that irritation is not something that happens to him occasionally, as a result. He’s irritated pretty much the whole time.” 

I let out a small laugh. “Are you that difficult to cope with?” I ask, ignoring the standard of referring to him formally. If he is a teacher, he is not my teacher, first of all. Second of all, I don’t see an age gap as a determinant for formal approach. Definitely not in this case. 

“What makes you think it is me?” he smiles, widely, and I like that too. I like his half smile, I like his full smile, I think there is some kind of easy-going sexiness about it. Something that comes naturally to him, something which isn’t forced, or trained. People normally call it charm, and I whole-heartedly believe he has a full set of that. Charm is very rare to find these days. I’m not charming, for example. There is nothing subtle about me, even though I should posses a kind of subtleness due to young age, an overload of freckles, and a blonde shade of freely falling hair. Instead, I’m obvious, loud, and determined to the point where a no smoothly changes to a yes.

“I never found myself having a good student-teacher relation, so being very sorry about that, but I won’t support your side,” I say, casually shrugging my shoulders as I finish the sentence. He nods his head in an understanding way, still smiling. His forehead lowers a bit, and his eyes start to wander, but soon his gaze lifts up, and his mouth slowly opens.

“I’m not a teacher,” he says slowly, clearly, loosing a bit of that parched sounding accent. I scan his face, searching for a hidden lie, for a smile to break through.

“Interesting,” I say finally. “Standing in the middle of this classroom, with boxes and piles of documents, and that angry kid walking out five minutes ago give a completely different impression.”

“Really?” he fakes a genuinely surprised tone of voice, and I recognize well the kind of irony sneaking from beneath. I don’t answer to that one-word question, and I know he doesn’t expect me to. “I’m a priest."

And before a full realization of that sentence clicks through all of the neurons in my mind, I burst into uncontrolled laughter. It is so loud I hear it vibrating in my head. Bumping against the rough surface of the skull. I laugh so loud I feel the laughter coming through my nose. And then, suddenly, out of nowhere, I stop. I still have a giggle playing on my lips, I feel it there, just waiting for another wave to come around. 

Suddenly, my eyes meet his eyes, and there is no matching similarity. He obviously didn’t think it was funny, or he didn’t mean for it to be funny. The more I stare at him, the more I realize that this ongoing seriousness is not a challenge, not a response. It is a way for him to confirm the previous statement, and when the neurons finally click, all getting wired up, I realize, a cold realization that is, that he’s telling me the truth. 

“Steven,” I murmur, not even recognizing the sound of my own voice. “Your name is Steven,” I say loudly, searching for another confirmation coming from his stare. 

“Gerrard. Yes.”

“No,” I murmur, “no, no,” I feel the laughter coming up again. Of course. Grandma. Now everything makes sense. He’s the new fucking priest for the rich kids rehab. Of course, of course, of course. How big of an imbecyle I usually have to be not to figure things like that earlier.

“What is so surprising?” he asks me, smiling, and I honestly can’t take that smile. Not in these circumstances. And before I answer, I look at him, sure, I’ve been staring at him for the past ten minutes now, but I look more into him, reading him, scanning, trying to develop a new strategy, sketch plan B. I feel my lips hanging in there, in a half-smile, partially amused at its own incapability of not being able to control the laughter. At this point, he goes back to going through papers, and I look at him, as he gives me some side-looks, some bits of attention. He’s laid back, and I still think this is a joke. A prank. Juergen is going to come out soon from a corner or invisible door, like a prophet, or Ashton Kutcher, and will tell me for the countless number of time in this life _I’ve told you so._

“This is impossible,” I tell him, my tone surprisingly serious now. 

“Why?” he asks, and I sense amusement in his voice. In his eyes too, as he looks up from the papers. What is it about these goddamn papers that they always have to go through? Teachers, priests, Juergen, adults in general. What do you have written down there? The equation for world salvation? Jesus second name?

“Aren’t you a little too handsome to be a priest? Too surreal to live in celibate? Don’t you have women and men kneeling down to confess and asking if they can get a God’s blessing by presenting a ten minute of explicit oral sex? Priests should be regular. Oval faces. Double chins. Misery and lack of belief in their eyes. Maybe a women on a side, fully packed bank account in Switzerland. A land or two. That is a definition of a priest.”

“So I already heard you’re like that,” he says after I finish my monologue, and I start to smile. “Provocative, but falsely. Quite bold in your words, I admit, you are. People are usually outraged, aren’t they?”

As his tone of voice changes from slightly amused to deep, low, and quite serious, I decide not to cut him off with unnecessary responses, therefore I don’t say anything in return. I just look at him, as he is looking at me now, holding another pile of papers in his hand.

“Of course, they are,” he answers his own question, as he puts the paper down, and he sits on the verge of the table. “And you like that. Oh, you really do. That is what you all have in common here. Lacking attention. Mothers, fathers, peers, teachers. Constant underrestimation, constant battles. You all lost them severely in your past. One, by one. One, by one. And now here you are; all gathered in cubicle places like this. Broken, damaged, impolite, overly dramatic, and boring. Boring in your reassured belief that you own the world, because you face it up-front. And I really don’t think you do." 

“This wasn’t nice, Steven,” I tell him with a smile, and oddly, I see him smiling too.

“Please,” he retorts, ironically, still sitting on the verge of the table, looking at me. “Don’t call me Steven.”

“Stevie? Do you like Stevie better?” and maybe there is something that twitches inside of him, I see that, I always see that twitch. But it is gone a second later.

“I feel like you should leave,” he manages to say that without sounding angry, and I’m quite impressed. He didn’t loose his shit while giving me that teardrops deserving speech. Ovation worth. It was nice, all well put, he must be given a lot of crap before. I get him. We’re not likeable. We’re exactly how he measured us to be.

“I am leaving now, don’t worry,” I say, slowly turning around, expecting maybe he will change his mind. And as he doesn’t say anything else, I turn my head to face him, and as my lips spread in a joyful, hopeful smile, I tell him, “I will see you again.”

I don’t wait for his response; I don’t think it will come anyway. Walking away, I let out a small laugh, something very reassuring of how I feel about the whole situation. What he said surely didn’t upset me, for I have heard much worse. Since the age of thirteen I’ve come across all different ranges and volumes of people trying to define me. Worldly express their disgust, fears, anger, or interest they’ve accumulated towards me. Usually it was teachers, who showed off with plenty of creativity calling me fancy names, sentencing to some kind of visible ostracism, or any other kind of activity that was supposed to made me understand that the way I behave is not the way I should be behaving. What Steven said did not enlighten me, I don’t feel like it did, but it certainly earned bits of my respect. I like honest people, and their ways of making me feel uneasy. Uneasy is like a challenge; a way to see who can handle it better. And I like challenges, I like people who serve their bullshit on a silver plate, full course, instead of chopping it into pieces and feeding you in irregular portions. Steven deals with difficult youth, and you can tell that by taking a one glance at the way he stands, at the way he firmly holds his posture, how he moves his hands, and how he shook’s a smile. I would tell him I want to have sex with him here and now and his eyes wouldn’t even blink. He heard it all. As he said before, difficult kids are masters of centering their attention on them. Deprived of that luxury in the past, and severely battered, they would do and say surely more than an average of what they should say in order to evoke a certain reaction, get closer to a certain result. For Steven we’re a boring breed, all heading towards a second-rate direction. No matter how glassy and white the rehab is, and how hot the staff appears to be, we all deep inside know we’re doomed more or less for what people predicted. A life that’s on the verge of being acceptable, but not really moving further from that border.

As I step outside the building, the horizon flooded with dim lights of an upcoming evening, I see shapes of three people. Long and a bit blurry to my shortsighted vision, but as I step down the massive stairs, walking in direction of bike stands I clearly recognize them. It is the guy who so furiously left the classroom, Martin as well as I remember, and then Daniel’s brother, bulky and big, idiotic and dull expression marking his face as he stares at me now, transmitting a full volume of hatred through his glare. The tallest of them all, slender and composed, is Daniel. 

As I look at them, I see Daniel’s brother slightly leaning in, telling something to Martin. Daniel, for obvious reasons, is not saying anything. His eyes aren’t focused on his brother, they’re not focused on Martin either. He looks at me, and I try to understand what does this look mean. I don’t see sadness playing in his eyes, his face doesn’t bear any signs of anger, he’s not upset. I find him hard to read, as there is this usual kind of nothingness beaming from his expression. He doesn’t occur to be an ignorant person, or emotionless. Maybe a bit cold, but it is something else. Like a part of him is not there, taken away, long forgotten, absent. He’s surrounded by people, and he still looks like he would be there on his own. He could be sitting next to me, and I would still feel his loneliness. We exchange a look, a long stare of unanswered questions and I want to tell him, I want to move my mouth so maybe he can read through my lips movement that a part of me, or maybe even me as a whole, that I just _miss him_. That I wait for him. That I look for him. That I want him. But then, suddenly, Martin says something with his head up, and he also glances at Daniel, as if finally acknowledging his presence, and Daniel is no longer looking at me anymore.

I unlock my bike, pushing the bag’s stripe over my chest, and the rest on the back. I put the earphones in, and I select a playlist. 18 km’s evening ride. Some loud classics of Jimi and Queen; something to push the speed through my legs, and get me home before I give up mid-way. As I move the bike from the holder, I notice a small, folded paper pushed between the brake wires, which  entwine the headset. I take the paper out, and I realize it is probably from Daniel, and that he must have put it there as I dropped the bike before this training, or before his brother and Martin met up. I think it is smarter to open it when I arrive home, than to do it now, with both of those idiots hanging meters behind my shoulder. Not referring to Daniel, obviously. 

I tuck the paper into the pocket of my jacket, and I sit comfortably on the bike, my thigh mussels begging already for a break. I don’t look to the side, I don’t even see them with the corner of my eye. I start moving forward, slowly and regularly, adjusting to the familiar pain.

As I bike, and the music floods my ears, I start to smile underneath my nose, a smile small and shy, only to get bigger and bigger within seconds. I think how silly the whole situation is, I wonder what would Sergio say if I would told him, I guess he would just laugh it off, tell me I’m fucking stupid, and I need to stop fooling around. That picking disabled – that is how Sergio would call him – people for my own treat came to a very disgusting, nasty point, and even though he likes my kind of nasty, this isn’t pleasant anymore. Sergio would never call Daniel–Daniel. Sergio doesn’t call people by their names; he rarely calls me by my name. Sergio just doesn’t give two shits, and seeing my giving a half of a one would send him over the edge. We fuck, and it’s nice, and I come long and hard with him, and that’s it. That’s what we’ve always believed to be most effective description of a relationship. Like an easy equation for two plus two. Gives you four. Here; gives you satisfaction without bringing additional damage. Sergio would tell me that damaged people are a waste of time, and the only thing they do is that they make you damaged too. That is probably why he never fell in love with me, and I didn’t seem to mind. Can’t blame him for making smart choices.

While the playlist goes with the last songs, and the pain of my thighs is now minimized, I finally enter the village, and I ride faster through already very familiar and lonely streets. I know people are out there, in the backyards of their houses, children playing and screaming, parents enjoying the warm, summer, Thursday evening.

Normally I drag the bike inside the garage, but this time I just leave it against the porch, stepping up the stairs, and moving slowly towards the main door. Everything fucking hurts, and I’m thirsty as if I would spent past two centuries digging new levels of hell. I take a last, loud breath before opening the door, and walking in.

Dropping the bag to the floor, I take out my earphones, and then I'm off with the shoes, heading later straight to the kitchen. Taking a large bottle of water, and as usual no glass, I move back to the living room.

Juergen is sitting on a sofa. His feat up on the coffee table. Glasses on, newspaper opened op on his lap. The clock on the wall says it is five past ten in the evening.

“Hi,” I say to him, sitting down on the other sofa, putting my legs on the table as well.

“Hi,” he says back, turning his head to face me only few seconds later. Typically for mid-aged people, he takes his glasses a notch down to scan my face. “Are you hungry?” 

“No, I’m fine, thanks,” I reply, opening a bottle of water and taking a long, big sip. He keeps looking at me while I do it, but I know he won’t say anything about the glass. At this point in my life it’s just pointless.

“How was the training?” he asks, switching channels on the TV. 

“Hell,” I tell him honestly, closing the bottle and putting it down on the carpet, next to the sofa. “But I’m getting there.”

“Good. The Fuenlabrada coach e-mailed me saying he wants to see you at the end of August for a trial. Will send a detail information further on." 

I nod my head in response, side-glancing on to the screen. “So month and a half.”

“Yes. Month and a half,” he repeats after me, but we both avoid eye-contact.

Month and a half of training on my own, without a professional supervisor, only to get one of the best times I had to work years for. Can’t wait for the fucking end of August to come. Really can’t wait.

“I think I’m gonna go to bed,” I say after some time, feeling the exhaustion building up inside of me. “When is mom coming back?”

Juergen shifts his gaze at me, and he takes his glasses off. “Tomorrow in the afternoon. She wrote me a text. I think she’s enjoying herself. I’m happy.”

I nod my head again. Mom left yesterday evening to visit her friend in Copenhagen, who moved there from Madrid ages ago. I think she really just wanted to escape, and I perfectly understand her.

“And grandma?”

“Long asleep by now, I guess,” I look at the clock on the wall, as he says, “you know… her yoga classes.”

I give him an understanding, small smile, and I get up from the sofa. I grab the bottle of water, and before maneuvering in-between the couches, I tell Juergen a simple goodnight.

“Good night, Fernando. Sleep well,” he says, and I see him pushing the glasses back on, eyes focusing on the TV screen once again.

I walk the stairs up, passing by the bathroom and grandmas room, also Juergen’s and mom room, only to get to my bedroom at the very far end of the corridor. I already took a shower after the training, and I’m not bothered to get underneath water once again.

I shut the bedroom door, and I start to undress. I also realize I left the bag downstairs, and I shouldn’t probably leave the towel and all other, wet things inside. Fuck that, I think, as I just throw the clothes on the floor, and it is only before I get to bed, I think about the folded piece of paper inside the jacket pocket. I move few steps back to the pile of clothing lying on the floor, and I unzip the pocket, taking the folded piece out. 

I smile to myself, as I sit on the verge of the bed. Once I open up the paper there is quite a big paragraph, and a handwriting looks better than usual. Only sometimes irregular, and out of line. As I start to read, I feel that unknown, uneasy feeling inside of my stomach.

_“When I can’t sleep at night I think of that Sunday morning, and how water was dropping down your body when you went to take a shower. I like your skin color. I think a lot about your skin color. I also think a lot about the lower part of your spine, and I think a lot about kissing it. I like your lower parts. I like the lower part of your stomach too. I think about biting your skin, and leaving red marks all over your body. Have you ever been bruised? I would leave you bruised. I’d bruise you, and I’d kiss you. And I’d lick you. Sometimes I think I’d like to own you, but you’re not mine to own. You’re yours. I know that. It is all when I can’t sleep at night. And when I do sleep at night, and when I wake up in the morning, you’re still there. It would be nice one day to wake up next to you, I think.”_

When I see the final dot, that is only when I realize I’ve put my breath on hold for a long time now. I feel my body burning, and I feel every muscle of my body tense, and anxious with odd kind of pleasure. I’m hard, too. I go over the text once again, quickly, but each word resonates in my head, louder and louder, and I close my eyes. I shut them with unusual amount of effort, and I lay down. I get underneath the bed sheets, as if trying to separate my body from the very rest of the world. I hold the paper in my left hand, and I stare onto the ceiling. The blood is pumping inside, again louder and louder. Everything seems so loud. My breath is loud. My exhale is loud. I don’t even try to stop myself, as my right hand just gets under, and it moves across my stomach.

When I close my eyes I see him clearly. On top of me. His tall and slender body just hovers over me, and I feel locked, and pinned down, and I moan at the thought of it. I see him pulling my boxers down, even though I clearly feel my own hand doing that. I prolong the moment, when I touch and grab onto my cock, and I imagine his tongue, and I imagine his lips, and his teeth. Most of all his teeth. Biting my skin, biting painfully, and long. And I moan again before I even touch myself. But when I finally do, since I can’t take it any longer, when I touch myself it is a very unknown, even painful sensation. Because it isn’t enough. My hand wraps around my cock, strongly, firmly, I want it to hurt. I move on my stomach, as I pull on leg slightly up on the mattress, and I imagine him in-between. I want to see his body, I want to see his face in-between my legs, in-between my thighs. I moan loudly to the pillow, and I squeeze the paper I still keep in my left hand. _Sometimes I think I’d like to own you, but you’re not mine to own._ Please, please, I murmur to the pillow, biting on the material of the pillowcase. Own me. I move my hips along with the move of my hand. I just need more. More. And before I know, before I even realize, I have to hide the scream in the soft material of the pillowcase. It’s his name. It’s always his fucking, goddamn name that stays on my lips, and as I rush into the aftermath of my orgasm I keep saying Daniel. Daniel. Daniel, and again, Daniel. 

I roll to the side, facing the wall. I still desperately hold the paper in my hand, and I breath loud. Loud, loud, until I can’t hear myself breathing anymore. The whiteness of the wall gives me a nauseating feeling, everything seems so disjointed, and I blink too many times.

Once again, I repeat that sentence in my head in which he says he sometimes thinks he’d like to own me, and I think, still breathing out loudly, feeling warm, and briefly satisfied, that he probably already does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I wanted to thank again to all of you leaving kudos and comments underneath the last chapter written from Daniel's POV. You made me unbelievably happy. Thank you.


	12. 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been two months since my last update, and I believe saying sorry at this point accounts for pure bullshit. But I'm **very** sorry. I think I mentioned in some comments, that I'll come back later this time, cause of summer exam sessions, and all the crap involved in the process of surviving. I survived, and I safely made it to my Playground documents in order to pop out something satisfying for you. We're gonna finish this story, no damn doubts about that. I think we have about five more chapters to go. And then (maybeeeeeeeeeeeeee) a sequel. 
> 
> A ton of kisses and love, as usual.

 

 

 

 

 

It’s been a week and few days since that Thursday evening when I saw Daniel for the last time, and gradually I’ve realized that I started counting days and measuring time not in generally approved standards – dividing by seconds, minutes, hours, days, and weeks – but like a lonely, needy, overly-attached 14 year old girl after giving her first blow job. _When will I see him again?_ Whenever that question passed through my mind, and it did quite frequently to be honest, I wanted to drill across my skull in order to stop the words from sinking in. Also to spice things up, I still kept that note he gave me; neatly folded, safely kept in a nightstand cupboard, right underneath the old, worn-out, simplified edition of a Bible. Probably waiting for God’s blessing there, I guess.

I was waking up every single day at the same hour, but it didn’t come to me with ease. Each single day that came, it was more of a struggle. Alarm clock would go off in the breezy morning, and I’d move as close to the wall as possible, hoping the whiteness would eat me alive. I was in constant, ongoing state of pain, and no amount of cold, freezing showers; muscle stretching, and proper warm-ups would bring the slightest of relief. My thoughts clenched around my mind, and they were pumping with unusual amount of strength, leaving me powerless and angry. Couple of days had to pass that I realized I felt helpless, and there is nothing more harmful, nothing more demotivating than feeling helpless. I had that number in my head, my fastest time, my bestest score, and it kept replying in front of my eyes, driving me crazy. Grandma told me to meditate fifteen minutes each morning, and when I tried, I really did try, there were two things I saw in front of my eyes. That number and his handwriting. _You’re not mine to own._ I’m not. I’m not yours to own.

I think with each day I was angrier with him, than I was with me. If he’d never show up at that first bonfire party, if I’d never see him that day by the lake, if I’d never have to work next to him, if I’d never go to that second bonfire party, if I’d never blow him in the woods, if I’d never jack him off in that locker room, if I’d never read that fucking note… not that I’d immediately become faster, stronger, and better in the pool, but at least all I would have would be that fucking pool. Now I had him, and when I thought about it, I didn’t even _have_ him. At least not in a way you have things, not in a way you’re in possession of them. And I needed to be in possession, I needed to be reassured and guaranteed, and here I wasn’t.

Nicklas sometimes would come around in the mornings, or evenings, and he would sit on the plastic chairs by the wall, observing. Sometimes he would measure my time, and scream my result before I even touched the wall to finish. Sometimes he would sit on the verge, dipping his legs inside the cold water, while eating his Snickers. It was always about that Snickers, and dipping his legs inside, and no matter how many times I told him not to do it – hygienic reasons, really – he would rarely listen. Nicklas liked to chuckle, and wave his hand, and tell me I’m fast, without understanding that I needed to be faster. Nicklas would tell me I have nice arms and abs, but then he would grimace, shook his eyebrows, and smile lazily repeating he’s obviously not gay. I always replied saying that I wouldn’t bang him even if he were.

Many times I complained about his presence, and told him he pisses me off, and that I can’t concentrate, and I had to concentrate. I had to see the wall, sink in properly, schedule my exhale’s and inhale’s, but he’d still come around. He’d sit there, sometimes for an hour, sometimes full-time, sometimes he would just come in to scream hi in Danish, and then leave. Sometimes he’d ask about Daniel, and sometimes he’d ask about Daniel more than appropriate amount of time, but I’d still keep quiet about him. I wouldn’t say a thing, and then Nicklas laughed in that rich, humoristic way, and his laugh echoed through the pool. _You like him so much_ , he would say, pointing a finger at me, and I still wouldn’t reply. _You just wanted to fuck him, and you didn’t, and you like him now instead_ , and I would just shake him a dreadful glance, ignoring a playful terror of his irony. Sometimes, rarely, I would just tell him to shut up, or fuck off, and then he’d laugh even more, that fucking asshole. Mommy’s thumb sucking asshole. I’d tell him that too, and he’d laugh louder, sometimes trying to pat me on the shoulder, and say, _I told you not to bother with him,_ andsometimes I thought I should have listened.

This Sunday morning, exactly a week and three days since I saw Daniel for the last time, Nicklas didn’t come to my early training. I guessed he went to church with the rest of his family, as most of the people did here. I also didn’t see Steven in his classroom-office-room when I was walking by, so I think he also went to the mass. Or took a day off, as it was Sunday after all. Even Juergen took days off on Sunday. And I had to be here. Pulling up my leg-skin speedos, and then heading on to the pool. I stopped complaining at the age of fourteen, or fifteen, I think, when I realized a very simple, obvious matter, that in order to get where you want to be, you have to keep on moving. You just have to practice, and obviously you can wish for certain things, hope for a good spin on a fortune’s wheel, you can write down your dream scores and stare at them with a warmth glowing from your heart, but if you won’t get out there every, single day, then none of it will happen.

Once I get inside the pool, I no longer see my old crew, my ex-coach, and my old hall. I don’t think about how far Javi is in his preparations, I don’t think about the end of August, I don’t think about trophies, and winning, and contracts, and Olympics. It’s me, and the water that surrounds me, and the wall in front. Once my arms and legs move in a synchronized, static manner, I even manage to forget about that _number_ , and that _line_ , and there is just a blissful emptiness, the sound of regular movement. In order to find balance, I track the regularity of motion. When you dance, for example, some people count the steps, some sense the rhythm, sometimes remember the amount of turns. When I swim, I think about regularity. Exhale, inhale. Left arm, right arm, left arm, right arm. Legs move in accordance, smoothly, as if they weren’t even a part of my own body.

After some time, usually it takes a solid half an hour, my muscles start feeling slightly tired. Bothered. I still swim at a same pace as before, I still keep the same level of regularity, and you could be looking at me from afar and you’d never say I’m loosing it. But I am. It takes another half an hour, though, after which I push myself up and sit on the tiles, loudly breathing out, legs half dipped in water. Frustration starts filling me up, as I close my eyes, trying quite helplessly to calm down. My previous routine consisted of much more demanding and challenging workouts, which didn’t tire me half as much as a basic hour of swimming did. I needed a clear mind, emptiness inside my skull. What I had instead was a complete opposite.

“Fuck that,” I murmur, standing up. I still have an hour of training, that I should reasonably take care of, but I won’t. Heading to the locker room, I grab my towel on the way and I walk away without looking back twice.

I push the door open, and seeing Daniel sitting on the plastic bench right in front, makes me stand still. I clearly remember what I felt the last time I saw him sitting like that here – a mix of excitement, odd flavor of happiness, and want. Now, as I’m staring at him and he stares back at me, I do not feel any of mentioned before. I’m angry and frustrated, and what I don’t understand is that I feel angry and frustrated with him, sitting here, looking at me.

After some time now, I close the door with a loud shut and I walk towards my bag, ignoring him. I don’t think his eyes follow, I think he still stares at the empty space which I occupied seconds ago. Maybe he feels it too. Maybe he knows, even though he probably doesn’t understand.

I open my bag and I start taking things out; a dry towel, shower gel, an extra pair of boxers, and as I reach for my cotton, white T-shirt, I feel his warm, large hand wrapping around my wrist, trying to pull me closer, successfully picking my attention.

“Don’t touch me,” I hiss out, feeling how he easily releases my hand a second after. I’m not gonna be playing by his fucked up rules, adjusting to his time schedule, and his sudden outburst of bravery. “I really don’t understand why you came here,” I say coldly even though for the past week and a half the only thing I could think about is when will I see him again. 

The moment I look up to face him, I immediately regret what I just said. It isn’t about the emptiness playing in his eyes – the ongoing emptiness; the same one he bears every single time I see him – but much rather the look of hurt. His lips are sealed, his back leaning against the lockers, his arms close to the chest, and if it probably wasn’t for my offensive tone, he would defensively cross them over his torso. When I act angry, he usually tries to behave unimpressed, calm, and cold. Although now when I think about it, I think he behaves unimpressed, calm and cold the majority of time.

I start pulling down my legskin, perfectly realizing he is about to see me fully naked – wow, again, what a surprise – and when I’m rolling the dry towel around my hips, I tell him with a wry smile, “did you get enough? ‘Cause that’s all what you’ll be getting today.”

How fucking virgin Mary of me, I think, as I walk towards the showers. I drop the towel to the floor, and I step inside. Opening the stream of water, I deeply hope it is going to calm me down. Ease out. Relax. I don’t want to be like that, really, but it happens sometimes. And quickly going through previous experiences in my mind, it usually happens when I _care_ about something. Something here being clearly Daniel, and fucking Nicklas being clearly right. And on top of that, I’m slow like a tortoise crossing Sahara. You’re loosing it outside the pool too, I hear a voice in my head, as I press the forehead against the cold tiles.

Ten minutes later, when I walk back, he’s still sitting there. Hopeful much, huh? And I thank the powers for not saying it out loud this time. I realize that, when I ignore him, and when I walk around here – wordlessly – I’m not giving him a chance to react. Well, either way his reaction spectrum is much limited, but with me not saying anything and him not flashing his A4 pages in front of my eyes, we just happen to be two strangers locked up in one, small room. Maybe pretending we were something more was a huge mistake from the very beginning?

“You know,” I start, my voice tone changing to something I can’t honestly recognize myself. It’s nasty, and sleazy, and ironic from the start of a first letter leaving my throat. A part of me already knows what is going to happen, another part is too frustrated to stop. “I liked your last note,” I tell him, shutting the locker loudly, and stepping towards the bag still lying on the bench. “In case your future plans fail, you can always consider writing for PornHub.” 

Only when I finish changing into my regular clothes, I notice he moved forward, now standing close to the door, probably about to leave. But I don’t want him to leave.

“So you don’t have anything to say?” I ask him, letting a small and humorless chuckle at the end of that question. I stand with my back towards him now, packing my bag, pushing things inside. “Oh, _of course_ , you don’t have anything to say, because you can’t speak. Silly me–” and I would go on talking all sorts of harmful bullshit like that, if it wasn’t for his aggressive return.

He angrily pushes me aside, and if not the plastic bench beneath, I would be now on the ground. Daniel stands a meter away, breathing out loudly, looking at me with nothing else, but an odd kind of hatred. I start to laugh. “You really are fucking crazy,” I say, standing up, not for too long though. He pushes against my chest with a much better strength than before, my back hitting the lockers, and me falling down on the bench again. Now, I’m angry too.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I ask, half screaming, as I jump back centimeters away from him. He doesn’t look scared, so I’m surprised when taking a step forward, he takes a step back. “Now you’re afraid of me?” I give him my most cheerful, lovable smile, but he offers nothing in return. “Really, Daniel, what is your fucking problem?” And it is only now, that I see him shaking his head, fast and ironic movement. If he could laugh out loud, he would probably give me the most emotionless laugh I’ve ever heard. “That first night I saw you, I should have known there is something wrong with you. And it is the kind of wrong, where it is just _wrong_. You’re not fucking normal, you know that, right? All your fucking letters, little notes, coming here, waiting for me, spying on me; what else do you do? You have the walls of your room covered with my pictures? A to-do list you talked over with your brainless brother?”

And I don’t know whether it is the fact I dragged his brother into this, or maybe it is everything else combined, but without me knowing, or expecting first, he hits me. It is a quick and very painful hit. Right in the crook between my nose and my cheek. My head jerks to the side, and I’m too distracted and disoriented to move it back straight away. I feel something inside cracking, but it doesn’t hurt bad enough for me to think he broke my nose. I realize, as if it doesn’t really depend on me, that I start smiling. I turn my head to look at him, and I’m smiling. He has that unfazed impression; I feel like I saw it marking his face before. I wouldn’t immediately say he seems angry or provoked, but his eyes are raging, and he breathes faster than he did before, and I know another word flying out of my mouth would guarantee me having a hit coming again.

“You know what my classmates would always tell me?” he honestly doesn’t seem interested in my little, insightful story, but I’ll keep on going anyways, because that is just what I do. “That I punch nice as for a girl,” still, he’s not interested. “That’s what I’ll tell you as well,” my cheek pulsates with pain the more I talk, but I still talk, guessing that’s what I just do anyway. “You punch nice as for a girl, Daniel.” 

He grabs a handful of my t-shirt and shoves me against the lockers; the ones closer to the door, without the plastic bench leaning against. Sexy, I would say in different circumstances. Painful, now that I think about it, as my back strongly brushes against the metal, and the full spine line burns. I’m still smiling, but probably less joyfully now, less outragingly, less provocatively. Maybe there are bits of being pathetic here, I feel them, but at this point stopping seems like more of a pathetic idea. “Crazy,” I whisper strongly, knowing he listens, “that is what you are. Fucking crazy,” and then, that is how it starts. Probably, if I knew, I wouldn’t, but maybe even if I really knew, I still would. 

He hits me once – ribs –, then twice – mid-stomach – the third time I bent, and I automatically cover my head with my arms, but the hits are still coming. My ribs, stomach, side, arm, until I can’t really stand still, and I loose balance after an unknown amount of time. I fall down, trying immediately to get back up, but I can’t. I just see his legs; knees are the highest I can look up to. And maybe not being able to look him in the eyes is what causes the continuous play, like a display of power and rule, a brutal discussion in which I really have no word to say, because I probably said it all before.

“Stop it,” weakly urges out of my full of saliva and half blood mouth, and I can’t stop saying it again. Now louder. I say it twice, and he doesn’t stop. Maybe it wasn’t pleading and begging enough for him. Maybe he was taught to expect more than that. Maybe he’s not going to stop, and I’ll die here with the insides of my stomach exploding soon. I feel like the parts already did, but maybe they didn’t. Maybe if they did I wouldn’t be consciously lying on the floor, picturing his feet walking away, leaving me alone. It burns inside of me; mouth filling with warm and silver-tasting liquid.

I close my eyes telling myself that I’ll close them for a split of a second, and once I open them I’ll have the strength to get back up. I close my eyes, but I don’t remember opening them a split of a second later.

I drift in the blackness of unconsciousness with various, meaningless, and blurry images coming up right after the other, and I drift like that until I don’t anymore, slowly waking up.

As I open my eyes, what I see flashing in front of them, are the led lamps hanging from the ceiling. Going blind alongside of having an epileptic attack is definitely going to be the highlight of this morning story. Afternoon. Evening. I realize I have no idea how much time I’ve spent lying here, unconscious and battered, and as I roll on the other side, moaning painfully, I have that image of me – quickly getting up, packing my bags, going home, maybe calling Juergen to help, maybe not calling Juergen, because he’s definitely not going to help. But I try to move, and as I try to move, I fail miserably at everything I have so vigorously planned to do. I hear voices now, and the first thing I think about is that Daniel asked his brother and a bunch of other idiots to come clean the dead body – half dead, at least – or if not dead, then with a purpose to make it so.

“He’s here,” I hear those various voices, and various tones, and maybe something switched in my head and from now on I’ll be functioning on higher levels of insanity. Thank you, Daniel. I really needed that. 

Then, what reassures me of moving on to those new levels of insanity, is that I see a bunch of oddly looking heads hovering over me, and then there is this one getting closer and closer. Shaved head, blue, Bali-like watery eyes, _oh Bali_ , and he’s quite close now. How I’d go lie down on the beach. I close my eyes and I see blue waters of the Bali island. White sand. Warm breeze.

“Take me to the beach,” I mutter, and then I hear a bunch of various laughs, and I try to open my eyes to tell these heads to stop fucking laughing, but it feels like my body is digging itself down the white sand, and I really can’t complain. It feels nice. 

The next time I wake up, there are no flashing lights, no warm breeze of imaginary Bali island, no heads hovering above me. I wake up and there is a feeling of some kind of mattress underneath my back, a bit hard against my body, but it is there, and generally it feels much better than the floor I remember I found myself lying on to.

“Finally,” a strong, but also quite relieved tone voice reaches my ears, and it sounds quite delicious, that if a voice can be sounding delicious, and I feel like I relish to the sound of that one word echoing in the small, white room. “You woke up,” I turn my head to the side to see a tall posture, mature face, a couple of days lasting stubble. Familiar features that take me three, four, five minutes to recognize due to the current state of nothingness in my brain. Steven. Steven, who doesn’t like to be called Stevie. Steven the priest. Steven the hottest priest I’ve seen in my life, and in some past life’s probably too.

“I already called the nurse, so just lie down and try not to move. She’ll be here in some time soon, I really do not know when. It’s Sunday,” he keeps on talking and words flow out of his mouth extremely fast, maybe a little too fast for my slowed-down brain to understand. The room is white and it looks like an emergency room I was very familiar with in high-school. “Martin and some boys from his group found you in the locker room, mumbling some unrecognizable things about Bali and the beach. I’m afraid you had a minor brain concussion, and we should be asking for an ambulance instead of a nurse, but she’s under all of immediate calls, so that should be helpful. But we’ll see. I’m happy you woke up on your own. How do you feel?”

I look at him, eyes wide and focused, trying its best to concentrate and navigate onto a one, steady point, but Steven keeps rolling in front of my eyes from time to time, words of his own spinning inside of my skull, and me – helplessly tracing its meaning. Feels like there’s none, but I recall his last question. It’s short and I can do short questions. 

“Fine,” I tell him, feeling like it takes a great effort for my mouth to open, and even a greater one for my throat to produce sounds, for letters to compose into words, and for words to create a meaning. I said one word, and I already feel like it deserved a Nobel prize for a lifetime achievements.

“Now, I need to contact your mother, father, anyone who takes care of you,” he says, and by the way his lips move I know he has no intentions of stopping now, but I look at his lips, and I see them continuously moving, although I have already lost track of it. 

“I’ll go home on my own,” I cut him off, throat parched, voice calm, normal, almost too normal, but I feel too exhausted, and too hurt to give him my usual attitude.

He laughs loudly in response, and I think his laugh drills through my forehead. When he stops after what felt like a prolonged eternity, I breath out in relief. Laugh like that again, and you’ll have me killed, I want to say, but I can’t due to rather obvious reasons.

“When the papers were signed for you to eligibly use the sport facility, then your father, or your mother probably left a number to contact during emergencies, and I’d gladly use that number, but the office downstairs is closed. As I said, it’s Sunday.”

What a big fucking loss that the office is closed, I think, and I prep myself to say something this time – it’s gonna be big, and bold, but the minute I open my mouth, the door swing forward, and a tall women walks in. She’s pale, skinny, and she carries a small bag. 

Steven doesn’t say anything, because well, I believe me lying here like that is quite self-explanatory. She says something in Danish to me, which I have problems understanding, so I don’t say anything in response. She has that thing to measure my pulse, she has that other thing to flash it into my eyes, and she has a bunch of other things I do not know a professional name which they go by.

“I don’t speak Danish,” I tell her finally, realizing it is much easier now for me to speak than it was ten or fifteen minutes before. She comes as a steady, one-full image in front of my eyes, with no additional rolling, and with no additional spinning. I see her nodding her head in an understanding matter, but words aren’t flowing out of her mouth. She opens my eyes, examines my bruises, lifts off my shirt and touches my torso. Left side ribs hurt like they were dipped in hell flames.

“These three might be broken,” she says calmly, gently moving her fingers over the left side. “But I see you have no problems breathing, so I think there is no lung damage involved,” her accent is tough, and her voice is low, but she’s calm, and her being calm makes me calm too. “An x-ray is needed to check for potential brain and chest damage. How do you feel?” 

I guess saying “fine” won’t be enough here. “I’m okay,” I tell her, trying to sound as genuine as it is possible. “My stomach hurts, but that’s fine,” and I find the strength to continue, but she turns around to face Steven.

“I can’t prescribe him any kind of meds, so I advise to call his parents and take him to the nearest hospital.” 

“Of course, that is what I thought from the very beginning would be the best solution, but the regular procedure demands to use the facility med staff,” and she nods her head in response.

She turns now to me, gives me a last, examining look, and she says, “you were very lucky,” a sentence I’ve heard before so many times, I’ve lost count. I’m always so fucking lucky, aren’t I?

I see her talking to Steven quite on a side for about next couple of minutes, and then she leaves, shutting the door behind her. Steven walks toward me, sitting down on a plastic chair with no backrest. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He looks at me, as I look at him.

“Couldn’t you get me a better bed?” I ask, glancing around, realizing I lie down on some kind of an odd, flat mattress, pinned down to a bare stand. It really makes me think of a high-school emergency room with an old nurse solving crosswords there. 

I move my glance on to Steven and I see him half-smiling. His lips are twisted in something maybe only resembling a half-smile, but it is gentle. “Really,” I repeat, slowly, hearing how my voice still doesn’t sound the way it used to. “This bed sucks,” he smiles wider now, and I try to follow up, but it is too difficult. One step at a time. “Can you get me some water?”

He stands up immediately moving on to a single cupboard with a large counter in front. He takes out a glass, and then a bottle of water. As he takes those few steps to walk towards my bed, he asks me, “so what happened, Fernando?”

Inevitable question I’m surprised he only asked now. “Nothing,” I reply straight-away, feeling like a same old formula fills my head. 

“That’s quite something for nothing,” he hands me the glass, and I slowly drink it all. I hand it back to him, and I see how he moves; his body tall, slender, I bet he’s nicely shaped underneath those clothes.

“Been through worse.” 

“I bet you have,” he sits down back on that chair, and he looks at me with those scanning, restless eyes. I know he’s determined to get the inner side of the story, and I know he won’t be satisfied with just bits of ignorant excuses. “Martin found you in the locker room first. Then he called the rest of the group. They are abnormally lazy, and hate Sunday swimming practice, even though it is mandatory in their process of recovery,” I listen to the story, because his voice offers some kind of a healing to my bruised senses. I know he tries to go all the way around with it, get me comfortable, at ease, make me talk. I’ve been through that as well. But I will just love to see him try. 

“What exactly are they?” I ask, quite surprised at my own sudden outburst of interest, but maybe I stupidly hope that the more I get involved in the pointless matters, he’ll forget what kind of point he tried to make.

“Who? Martin’s group? Well, they aren’t exactly Martin’s group. I just refer to them in such a way, cause you happened to meet Martin before,” he pauses for a second, and I narrow my eyes in a typical manner signalizing thinking efforts. Difficult thinking efforts, mind that. Suddenly though, I recall Martin’s insanely shaped cheekbones, and the craze in his eyes, and how Steven said he’s irritated pretty much the whole time. It is the same Martin I now remember meeting up one evening outdoors with Daniel and his brother, as I finished my training.

“Mhm,” I murmur, zoning out, picturing same scene from over a week ago. What crashes my images is Steven’s voice and words I’ve realized I already missed.

“They’re not what you mistakenly believe they are. No one is a crack addict here, no one is a fellow convict. You’re much more alike than you think you are. And I believe you have bonds of similarity with kids here, as well as with the kids in the village. What is maybe still different is that your parents still believe in a miracle, whether the parents of kids here stopped believing a long time ago.” 

“How presumptuous of you,” I say, feeling a slight irritation on the inside, and that irritation isn’t doing me much good, since all of my insides are already pretty irritated, and in pain, and I’d gladly leave them as they were without much of extra digging.

“Presumptuous? I’m telling you how your parents still have hope, naive as it is, but hope that you’ll change and step back on a right path.” 

“What is right?”

“I’d say that right in your case is doing what you’re doing best. Swimming, correct? Isn’t it what you’re doing best?” 

“Apparently not anymore,” I think of the ugly training session I had today, and maybe if I had skipped it thinking Sundays’ trainings are ought to be skipped, none of this bullshit would have happened. 

“These kids are locked in a box facility, gathered all together, looking each other in the faces, probably wishing for a better outcome. They’re all well-off, attending or attended good, solid schools, have parents with excellent jobs, and sadly no hope their kids can do a tad better than that. Your parents still have hope.”

“Sure, that is why they sent me in the middle of this fucking nonsense cause they still hope. Get yourself a reality check,” I blurted out, impressed at the notion of anger carried through these words. 

“Why didn’t you fight him back?” he asks suddenly, and I lean against the backrest, mouth closing. “This whole time since we brought you here, I’ve been thinking why didn’t you fight him back, and I still don’t know.” 

My heart, as an automat, starts racing unbelievably fast. No reason, really, since my thoughts are well composed, my mouth is shut, but my heart races, beating painfully against the ribcage. I passed out while Daniel was still with me, but Steven told me minutes ago that Martin found me in the locker room. I assumed back then Daniel wasn’t there anymore, because, I mean, if he was this whole thing would turn out differently, wouldn’t it?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” experience taught me that this is the ultimate best answer to most of questions possibly ever asked.

“No, come on, Fernando, you know what I’m talking about. That boy, because I suppose only a boy could beat you up this sufficiently, not to diminish female’s strength of course… why didn’t you fight him back? Tell me, I’m interested.”

I don’t reply, even though I still look him straight in the eyes.

“I remember one of the boys from Martin’s group told me once that there was this newbie working on the field where they chopped wood, and that newbie pissed all the other boys off with his provoking comments, and his provoking behavior, and one time after they all finished that newbie got everyone around for a bit of a power display. You weren’t afraid to get in a fight with a boy who had other ten of his to fight that fight for him, then why were you afraid to fight back in a one on one play?” 

I look at his black jeans, I look at his black, buttoned-up shirt, I look at his face, his curious expression, his focused eyes. “I wasn’t afraid,” I tell him.

He shook’s his head, smiling. “I wasn’t afraid,” I repeat, this time much strongly, almost too much. It sounds like I’m begging him to believe me, and I never beg. Almost never. 

“Then what were you?”

I look away, because his gaze is too intense, too demanding, and I can’t be dealing with it now, the way I want to deal with it. I’m vulnerable in the most straight-forward meaning of this word. I’m vulnerable and Steven asking me about Daniel is something I can’t possibly afford to fuck up. Steven’s too smart. Steven’s no Nicklas.

“Deserving,” I suddenly say, and as the last letter is forced out of my throat, I turn my head to face him. I look at him, and even though his expression remains nearly unshifted, he seems utterly surprised. “I was deserving of everything that happened in that locker room. That’s why I didn’t fight him back. I deserved that.” 

We stare at each other in a painful silence, and I see how he opens his mouth, but soon close it. Then, the next time a word almost goes out, my phone starts vibrating in my pocket loudly, and I do not pick up straight away. I only take it out, once I loose hope that the other person on the other line will give up.  

It is Juergen. No surprise.

“Hi,” I say calmly.

“I called you an hour ago, but you didn’t pick up. It’s almost two in the afternoon, and you were supposed to finish around ten in the morning. Where are you?”

“Listen,” I start, absolutely not knowing how to put it all into words. “You need to come pick me up from here, cause I won’t make it home any other way.”

“What happened?” 

“Just come here, alright? Nothing happened.”

“What happened?” he urges, tone of voice obviously Juergen kind of serious. No good.

“I think I broke a rib. Maybe three.” 

“What? How?”

“I reassure you that once you come here everything is going to be self-explanatory.”

I hear his tired, arrogant sigh, and then he says, “I’ll be there in twenty five minutes. Wait,” and without me saying anything else, he just hangs up. 

I look at my phone, and it was on silent the whole time, so that is probably why no one heard it ringing before. “You should have called from my phone,” I say, quite surprised with a fact they didn’t do it.

“Sure,” Steven says, “and you’d tell me your password digits from asleep.”

“Oh,” I nod my head, realizing I have set a password ages ago. Slow should definitely stand as my new fucking nickname.

“Your bag is there,” he points with a finger on to my workout bag standing next to the wall.

“Thanks,” I reply, trying to move on the mattress, but it isn’t easy.

“Don’t move until your father comes,” Steven advises, and I look up to face him. 

“He’s not my father,” I correct him with an utmost seriousness, and I see Steven smiling softly.

“Just don’t move. Lie down, or at least sit still.” 

“I will, don’t worry,” I fake an ugly smile, and I look outside the window trying to get the tension a bit out. Thankfully, he doesn’t sit straight next to me, only some blissfull meters away, so once looking out, I don’t feel so tied down, under non-stop observation.

“What is his name?” Steven asks me, and I don’t reply. “Is he someone from here?” 

“No,” I say, still not looking back at him.

“Do I know him?” 

“I don’t think you know him personally, but realizing you knew about the bullshit fight story, I believe you at least heard about him.”

“Information circulates here very quickly,” Steven tells me, and I finally place my gaze on him, giving him an ironic look. 

“Tell me something I don’t know,” I say, not really expecting any kind of meaningful response.

“You’re in love with him,” he says calmly, looking at me with honesty beaming from his glance. “You’re in love with him, but you don’t know it yet.”

“I’m definitely in love with someone, who beat me up for no reason. And please, don’t do Oprah on me. You’re not Oprah. There’s only one Oprah.”

He starts to laugh, and I still give him this unfazed, quite ironic, difficult look. He keeps on laughing, and I just shake my head. Maybe Steven is exactly like Nicklas, and there is no kind of smart in there.

“But you told me before that there was a reason. That you were deserving of everything that happened,” he’s now serious, although I still see a shade of a smile hiding beneath.

“I’m not in love with him,” I say it again, shrugging my shoulders casually.

“I do not support any kind of physical violence as a way of solving problems, and I think it is a huge mistake for you to believe that there is any kind of it that you’re deserving of, but nevertheless, I’m still quite sure you’re in love with him.” 

“Just stop saying that, will you?” and it pisses me off that he laughs again. He thinks he’s so goddamn fucking smart, and he’s not. He’s not.

“Why does it bother you that I say it?”

“It doesn’t bother me. I just don’t think it’s true.”

“I have no idea what you told him, but from what I heard and experienced myself, I realize you like to say things which will more or less push people over the edge. You do it clearly on purpose, and oddly, you find joy in that. As I said, I have no idea what went on in there, but in any other case you found yourself entirely blameless, even though you practiced the same technique. And you’ve been probably practicing same technique for years, always seeing yourself without a fault no matter what you said or did before. Now, suddenly, there is someone who makes you feel not only like you  should be blamed, but more importantly, like you deserve to be blamed. People either feel that way when they kill someone, or when they’re in love. A destructive kind of love, of course, but I believe at your age you love in no other way.” 

I stare at him speechlessly for some time that feels like a very long time, embarrassingly unable to urge a word out of my throat, but then, the first time in my entire life, Juergen comes in picking a perfect timing, rescuing my helpless self. Steven turns around, standing up, and I try to move, but quite miserably. Juergen starts saying something in Danish, but then Steven tells him in that English of his that he doesn’t speak well Danish yet, so Juergen smoothly changes to his kind of English, and I’m still brutally mesmerized so I see that scene from afar, like it happens on a side of my current life. Juergen comes up to me sitting on that flat mattress, and only when he’s close enough, barging into my private safe area of a meter away from him, he says, “what the hell happened to you?” and I believe I’ll have an afterlife of explaining to do.

 


	13. 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I'm getting better. It's been less than a month (by day, hahaha) since the last update and I'm giving you quite a long piece: almost 8000 words. Hope you're not going to scratch your eyeballs out of boredom. Tell me everything you think about this chapter, cause I'm going to be the one going to scratch my eyeballs out if you don't. As you usual, all apologies for ugly, grammar mistakes and made-up, non-existant words. Also, as usual, I hope you enjoy much!
> 
> Love, love, love!

 

 

 

 

 

“How many times have you seen Rocky this week?” Nicklas (rhetorically) asks, as he slumps against the backrest of the couch, holding carefully a large box of ice cream. I say rhetorically, because he well knows that I’ve been watching Rocky endlessly, on the go, every day.

I shrug my shoulders in a meaningless response, giving him a long lasting (maybe a bit judgmental) side-glance. “What do you want?” he murmurs, mouth filled with chocolate-chip and caramel.

“How many ice-cream boxes have you stolen from my grandma’s freezer?”

He starts ugly laughing, and I can see bits of that melted ice-cream inside of his mouth, and I think how much I really hate him, but the more I see him laughing, the more I feel my own lips slightly alter in amusement. “If it wasn’t for you watching Rocky all over again, I wouldn’t have to recompensate this immerse pain with food.” 

“You do realize that emotional eating is a problem?” 

“You do realize that watching Rocky for the rest of your life, first, is not going to make you a great athlete, and second of all, is not going to make you forget Daniel?” he’s still munching in the middle of words, and when he finishes, he swallows a big portion of ice-cream, making that pig-familiar sound. To finalize this graceful performance, he smiles with lips clenched, and his corners rise high above the regular metric. He looks like Joker, who substituted the paint with chocolate chip and caramel. Beautiful. 

“You know what I hate about you the most? Apart from a countless number of other things I hate about you the most as well?” the fact that he still laughs, or now even more irritates me to the absolute levels. “Each time you ask me about something personal, and I know from the very tip of my mind that I should not be telling you, and I end up telling you, of course, because God cursing me, you’re the only friend I have here, maybe even the only friend I ever had, but my point is – I tell you those things, and then you use them against me once the occasion comes, and even when it doesn’t. So do it once again, and next time you come to my training I’ll have no doubts about drowning you in the pool.” 

“So you consider getting back to training?” he asks, taking a spoon out of his mouth. I sigh helplessly. 

“Probably. Maybe. Yes,” I tell him, about to press the play button.

“Okay, no, stop it,” he aggressively grabs the remote control out of my hand, and hides it behind a pillow. “You can talk to me about whatever you want as long as Rocky stays on pause.”

“Give me the remote control,” I demand, my palm opened expectantly.

“You know that I haven’t seen Daniel for the past three days at work?”

“Give me the remote control,” I repeat, my palm still open.

“Which is kind of weird, because his father lost a job at the gun shop, and they’re all apparently running second jobs to help the family finances, so him not showing up for three days straight is putting that one job he has at risk.”

I close my mouth, staring at Nicklas with eyes narrowed. I scan his face, tracing every bit of its centimeters. “What?” he asks surprised, wiping his mouth with a free hand, checking the palm for signs of probably something else than chocolate chip and caramel. I don’t really think he’s stupid, not at all actually, but he does have his moments when he tests my high hopes towards him. 

“You said that Daniel’s dad works at the gun shop?”

“Yeah, you know, nothing special. No Beretta’s, no high military stuff. Just some guns people use for recreational shooting, but mostly hunting. It’s quite popular here to hunt.”

I nod my head, wondering why I suddenly felt so moved by that piece of information. I turn my gaze to stare at the TV screen; a scene stopped mid-way, silence occurring in the living room. I turn my head again to face Nicklas, and I say, “You remember that bonfire shooting?”

He hums. “I was wondering the whole time who could possibly have the gun, since the restrictions on gun possession in Denmark are quite demanding, and now that you said Daniel’s dad worked at a gun shop isn’t it quite obvious it was Daniel’s brother?” 

“I don’t remember Daniel’s brother being at the bonfire.”

“But he had to be, since I saw him at the police office the next day and all the kids who took part in the bonfire were asked to testify.”

“Come on, Fernando, why would he have a gun and start to shoot?”

“Why? You really ask why? He’s fucking crazy, as the rest of this fucked up family is, that’s why. He hates me, so maybe he wanted to kill me.”

Nicklas fully turns to me now, spoon out of his mouth, ice-cream box placed on the glass coffee table. “Listen,” he starts, “better half of the village hates you and you’re still alive. If anyone was plotting upon your death, you’d be dead by now, trust me. Some idiot took a gun from their parent’s cupboard and thought it would be fun to flash around with it, getting some attention. That’s it.”

He leans in to pick his ice-cream box from the table, and he gets on with eating. I still stare at him, realizing that what he said was true; completely and undoubtedly true. If anyone wanted to kill me, they’ve had plenty of great options and occasions. No one is particularly plotting against me, but it bugged me that I felt like I saw something, like there was something to be understood and I was just walking around, helplessly trying to get puzzles all together so they would bond a meaning, and Nicklas was sitting next to me, eating a twentieth bowl of ice-cream, wondering where the pot might be hidden in this house.

“Remember when you told me the first night, when I asked you about Daniel, that his family is just _wrong_. That there’s something _wrong_ with them? You told me this yourself–”

“Yes,” he interrupts me even though I had no intentions of ending up my questioning monologue, “I said so, because Daniel haven’t said a word since he was nine, his sister is a blatant whore who goes to church twice on Sunday’s, and his brother is a blinded Nazi, getting probably all the support he wants from his father. Oh, and years ago their mother suicided herself without leaving so much as a note. That’s why I, and the rest of people here, say that there is something _wrong_ with this family. They have problems, as every family has problems. Your family has problems too. But no one is accusing you of planning a potential mass-murder, now, are we?”

I immediately find myself in a deep state of being ashamed and ridiculed, speechless on top of that, and I realize that lately there is quite a frequent group of people, who are building a capability of leaving me in such state. “Is your car parked outside?”

He gives me a shocked look. “What is wrong with you, Fernando?” 

“Is your car parked outside?”

“What? No, it’s not. I live a street away. Why would I use a car to come here?”

I quickly look around, realizing there’s no one in the house. It’s Friday afternoon and grandma is out for her yoga classes. Juergen and mom went for a bike trip. I can easily leave. “Go get your car and you’ll drive me somewhere.”

He takes the remote control from behind the pillow and hands it to me. “Here, I changed my mind. I can watch Rocky all over again. Press play and I promise I won’t say a word till we finish all parts,” but I’m already standing up, quite slowly, cause I still haven’t fully recovered, but I’m moving. I’m moving. We’re going. I grab a grey sweatshirt on the way, an extra set of keys, my phone, and I walk towards the main door. I put on my sneakers, and I stand there, waiting for Nicklas.

“Come on,” I say loudly, and I don’t see his head turning, much less him moving. “If you’re not going to help me, I’m going to do it on my own either way.”

I still don’t see any kind of change, so I just push the door open, and I slam it close, taking slow steps forward on the porch. I wait for him by the stairs, and I smile widely, when I see him coming out about couple of minutes later. He stares at me, his arms shrugging, “if one day I’ll get killed cause of you I won’t even be fucking surprised.”

He walks past me, down the stairs, and I observe him, hiding a rich laughter beneath a small, half-smile. At some point he turns around and says, “now what? You’re sending me alone to this war?”

I start walking, body behaving quite normally, although I feel so pushed out of my comfort zone, since for the past week I’ve been locked home nearly the entire time. “We’re not going to war, but I like this attitude, Nick. I’m glad you dropped the ice-cream.”

“Fuck you, fucking Michael Phelps,” he talks back, and this time it is me starting to laugh. He rolls his eyes, walking much faster than I do. “Wait here, and I’m gonna go get the car. Five minutes.” 

“Great,” I reply, flatly, but I think he hasn’t heard me talking. As I wait for Nicklas, I scan the surrounding realizing that I no longer feed myself with hate and reluctance towards this place. I’m no longer surprised at how fresh the air feels, or how quiet the streets sound. I start recognizing people from the talks my grandma has with Juergen, and I start to add some kind of human characteristics to every person I meet, or walk by, or see, realizing that I haven’t quite seen them as humans before. I’m far from saying that I like it here, or that I’ll ever miss this place once we leave for good, but I feel like those past feelings were substituted with something a bit more than ignorance. Now, I’m some kind of involved in what is happening here, and me being a part of that circus, a frequent player on that playground, makes me _feel_ , as simple as that.

Nicklas pulls over with his old BMW, and it hits me that I should think twice before getting in with as much as half of my body there, but then again, being careful isn’t really ever on the menu for me, so I get in, slamming the door. 

“Come on, be careful,” he tells me with an odd sense of care in his voice, and I roll my eyes. “She’s an old lady. Needs some tenderness in her life.”

“The car or you’re talking about yourself?”

He smacks my arm, before I can even stop him from doing so, and I just give out a short, honest laugh. “I always knew you must have some feelings for someone, but I would never suspect it would be _this._ Did you give her a name?” 

“Of course,” he says, starting the engine. “Her name is Megan.”

“As if Megan Fox?”

He nods in response, as we smoothly start moving forward. “You can’t get any more heterosexual even if you were given the help of God himself.”

Nicklas starts to laugh. “Where are we going?” 

“To the facility. I need to speak to someone,” I tell him, looking outside the window, hoping Nicklas won’t ask any question served with his favorite topping: extra-curiosity. 

“I assume you won’t need me there afterwards,” he replies, and I sense some kind of unusual play in-between his statement. Normally, he forces his lurking ass every way possible, and this time he drops the idea before I start telling him no. 

“You have a date?” it springs out of my mouth, before I have a chance to think about whether it is possible for Nicklas to have a date – reminding myself that because I would never date him, doesn’t necessarily account for the rest of humans to think such way. 

“Why is there this surprised tone in your voice?”

I give him a nasty smile. “So you do have a date?” 

“It’s not important,” he tries to shake it off, shrugging his shoulders, but I obviously know better.

“As you say,” I smile widely, giving him a side-glance, noticing he gives me a same one as well. I hope he appreciates the lack of extra-curiosity coming from my side. We’re even. 

“I just might be off the record for some time in the evening. I don’t know if I be able to come pick you up from here. How are you going to get back?”

“Well, I mean, worst case I’ll just call Juergen,” I say, arms loosely dropping. I believe he’ll get insanely irritated, but then again, he can’t expect to lock me home for the next eternity, and side point, he can’t be keeping the driving license away from my use. And if he’s going to do so – as he’s doing now – he’ll be paying the consequence price, which, in fact is, just driving me around.

The rest of the trip we spend not talking, and I need to admit I’m relieved. It gives me a chance to rethink, and rewrite my little, hopeless speech, which I assume to forget the minute I sit down to talk with Steven. 

As we arrive, and I scan the building briefly, looking over its massiveness, it makes me kind of sick. “Thanks for not asking questions,” I say to Nicklas, as my right feet is already outside the door. He smiles, although it is a vague smile, and it somehow hits me that maybe I’m not appreciative, and understanding enough. How many friends do we all have that are willing to show bits of support towards the undoubted craziness in our heads? I, personally, had no idea I have one until now.

I shut the door – gently this time – and I start walking towards the main entrance, not tempted to look back. I pass the hallway uninterrupted and unwilling to get distracted. I’m afraid something or someone will jump out of the corner, as if trying to fail me on my seemingly important mission.

Knocking on Steven’s office door I’m not immediately welcomed with warm allowance, and cheerful greetings, but I step inside, and I move slowly towards the chairs placed in front of his desk. I perfectly know he noticed it was me walking inside the room, but he has that manner I’m still getting used to – he acts as if he doesn’t acknowledge your presence, treating you with cold indifference, and lack of personal touch. But then comes the minute, when he looks up, or simply breaks away from the occupying behavior, and that minute when he reaches into your eyes with his own, it seems like he knows every little bit you’re about to tell him, obviously, without you telling him first.

“I thought I wouldn’t say it so quickly, but you look much better now,” he leans against the backrest, arms loosely resting over his chest. Black pen fidgeting between his right hand fingers. 

“I’ll tell my grandma you have little hope towards her magical healing procedure,” I smile softly, sitting down on a chair in front of him, across the large desk.

“How are your ribs doing?”

“Not broken, at least. Juergen fixed me an unnecessary, urgent meeting last Sunday with a doctor, and then, Monday, I spent the whole day in Copenhagen getting all sorts of boring x-ray’s and sex-less touches. They said I’ll be fine.”

“I suppose swimming is out of your reach nowadays?”

“I’m trying not to think about how much out of reach it is for me now. Instead, I came up with a brilliant puzzle for you.”

I see him shifting in his chair, eyebrows narrowing, an interesting smile crossing his face. “Tell me.”

“But first promise you’re going to give it a go, before you completely and definitely dismiss the whole idea.”

“I gave _you_ a go, before you made me want to completely and definitely dismiss the whole idea, so I believe, I may risk that one too.” 

A past me – although I’m not feeling like I evolved much from it – would drag that line into a nonchalant, yet very secure option for flirtation. Current me – same one dwelling on dragging that line into a non-secure option for flirtation – appreciate the friendly note, and smiles in response. As the corners of my lips rise, I realize it is a gentle, provocation-less smile. It is, quite a shame that I find myself incapable of pulling stronger strings in Steven’s company, but I try not to figure out why. There’s currently too much of why in my life, and a total sum of it is what I haven’t still sufficiently figured out, so not adding up more is showing great discipline, and maybe a sign of sanity.

“When I went to the first bonfire party, I remember not expecting anything. I was sitting down, sipping on my beer, although I shouldn’t be, since I was supposed to be on a very strict diet, which doesn’t include alcohol, obviously, but I was sipping on that beer, feeling kind of helpless, as I observed the crowd. People represent same kind of genre everywhere around the globe. They’re maybe a bit taller and more blonde here than I imagined, but it’s same shit all over again. So, easy to predict, I wasn’t surprised to find out no one is going to cheer on me here. Approve my stay, so to say. I was hoping to float every day without much of sense, until I reach the last bar, and I’ll be going home. Then I met him, or maybe saw him if I want to be exact, and I’m suddenly in some kind of no-exit-loop. He’s everywhere I try to move, and the more I try to stay out, the more I find myself being pulled in. He’s not easy, that’s what I can tell you. He has a secret, and it seems like no one else is interested in figuring out that secret except for me. That makes me suspicious. Aren’t we a curious species? Don’t we all want to know? So I dig in, and I ask. But the more I ask, the more I get suspicious. Then, alongside of me constantly asking, there’s someone pulling out a gun at the second bonfire party, and there’s the awkward talk with the police officers the next day. He disappears, and I count seconds like a maniac, before he comes back again. I try to trace him, not realizing he has my back the whole time. He finds me, and he comes to me, and it seems like he never asks, but I look into his eyes, and I feel like he’s willing to beg. I know he wants to tell me something, but I also know he’s not going to do it. I look around, and I notice, all of a sudden, how probably, surely, a majority of people are involved in his secret. Maybe partially, maybe just in a blink of an eye, but they all are, that is why they keep quiet. Now, as everyone is involved in each other business, wouldn’t you think one’s men action leads to other men’s action? Connotations lurk out, but I can’t make a map out of it. I sit, and I see people’s faces in front of my eyes, and they are all similar, and they all mean nothing, but I have that weird, abnormal feeling, that there is something being missed out on purpose. What is it?”

Steven is sitting in his chair, back still resting, arms still crossed over his chest. Only the pen is no longer fidgeting between his fingers. Believing in his smart, I can easily assume he already knows who I’ve been talking about, and what’s the problematic part of the case. I want to give him space, and time to think things through, but I’m somehow too stoked to stop now.

As I’m sitting down on the chair in front of him, I lean forward, pressing my elbows against the large, office desk. “He frequently disappears, and no one knows where is he hiding. How is it possible in a village where a newbie priest located twenty kilometers away knows everything about everyone? He doesn’t speak, but is it because he doesn’t want to speak or physically can’t? If he physically can’t, then what kind of a disease makes you loose your voice? And if there’s one, then why no one helped him get better before he lost his voice? Now, if he doesn’t speak, because he choses not to, then why? I opt for some kind of traumatic experience. Either he saw something terrible, or been a part of it. I guess both. Physically he’s very strong – as you probably noticed while looking at me the last Sunday – but, when you move towards him too fast, or you come too close, he’s immediately afraid. I don’t think there’s a case of physical abuse, because he’s not an example of a physically abused person; he’s not a victim. But there’s something he’s clearly afraid of, and I want to know what is it. Last, and that is something you probably know plenty about; his family. He has a disgusting brother, and a sister I’ve only seen twice. The first time she was tipsy, laughing loud and stupid, and the second time she was in church. A friend of mine told me she’s a whore, but I’ve been classified as one too, so I personally sympathize with her, rather than accuse her. His mom apparently suicided herself, and his father is a source of evil. Take one look at him, when standing close enough, and it feels like you come across Satan.”

I move back, realizing only once I close my mouth that I’ve been speaking without a pause, and more importantly, I’ve been speaking without thinking first. It all blurted out of me, ugly and desperate. Seemingly crazy, and maniacally. So the moment Steven stands up, I press my back hard against the backrest. He may slap me across the face; I feel like he’s been building up a moral spine to do so for a long time now. But once he sits on the table verge, an arm away from me, crossing his legs, and placing his hands both on opposite sides, I realize he has no real chance of preparing a sudden punch now. His silence drives me crazy.

“If you know his name, why aren’t you referring to him by his name, instead of saying he or his the whole time?” 

I sigh relentlessly. “Do you want me to replay that monologue again with a word Daniel inserted in blank spaces?”

He smiles, and I feel worse as if he’d slap me two hundred times across my face with a brick. “You have worked out some big judgments here, so I wanted to make sure you also have the courage to talk about these people using their names.” 

Fucking unbelievable. “I really do forget morals play a big role in your little world.”

“Easy, Fernando. I’m here to help you.”

“So help me,” I say, sensing desperation in my voice.

He focuses his stare on my face, lips slightly clenching, before he decides to speak. “I’ve been informed that the Agger family is currently having difficulty handling their finances. I’ve also been informed that Daniel is frequently missing, and that of course, it is nearly impossible to communicate with him, since he doesn’t speak. I have no idea, whether he choses not to, or it is a physical obstacle. I also never had a chance to meet his father, nor his brother. And when it comes to Daniel’s sister, Stephanie, she’s visiting the facility quite often. I think she might be seeing one of the boys.” 

“So you’re trying to tell me that’s all you know? That you never, not even once, thought there is something off with this story? You whole-heartedly believe that this is the family, like any other family. And that their problems, and their dysfunctionality comes as a regular, not as an exception?”

“What I whole-heartedly believe in is that you’re in love with Daniel, and that you care for Daniel, and that sort of love, and that sort of care, makes you want to help him, even though you may not realize it is help you want to offer him. I see you’re one of those rare people here that don’t pity him. I see that, don’t worry. But you cannot be trying to help him, by accusing and forcing different outcomes. You need to realize that what happened to him in the past, whatever that was, is in the past.”

I realize it is my time now to speak up and defend myself. It is my time to prove Steven wrong, no matter how little wrong he might be. I open my mouth to let the words out, and I intend to be brutal, and offensive in my disagreement, but then my mouth suddenly close, and my eyes wander, and I feel like there’s nothing I have to say. At least nothing of which would be brutal and offensive. I shrug my shoulders. “I just want a couple of answers to a couple of questions. That’s it. I never really thought about helping him, I never really saw him as being oppressed. I want to know _why_.”

“And you may never know.”

“And I may never know,” I repeat after him emotionlessly, staring into his eyes. I guess I’m just deeply disappointed in the lack of understanding between us. I’m disappointed, because he promised not to dismiss, and that is exactly what he did, without letting me even fully finish first. Foolish is how exactly I feel now.

“How long are you going to stay?” he asks, not changing his position, still sitting an arm away on the verge of the table.

“Juergen wanted to leave this week, but I told him I want to stay. I can’t be back in Madrid, with everything reminding me of the past months. I also want to get back to training as soon as possible, and it will be difficult since I’m basically banned from most of the good swimming pools there. I mean, I can go in and try to get myself an hour or two, but at this point I need eight every day with a coach and gym sessions. Organizing that in Madrid, given current circumstances is much more difficult than me recovering, and training here till mid August.”

Despite everything, there’s one thing Steven does best – he listens carefully to every word you think it is important to say. “What are the current circumstances?” 

Oh, he doesn’t know the story yet. “I won the European championship couple of months ago, and right after that it came out that I’ve been sleeping with my coach, which I haven’t. I mean, I have. But I slept with him only once, and it was quick, and stupid, and I know it shouldn’t have happened. But it did. People found out, and the swimming crowd got furious, and all the swimming clubs refused to accept me, after I got expelled. Now, I do not know where I’m going to finish my last year of high-school, and the only swimming club that considered taking me is some B-class shithole, which has no champions and no accredited trainers.”

“Lovely story,” Steven says, and I burst out with a quick, sharp laugh. I’m surprised to think about it as an honest laugh, despite the painful consequences of my previous actions.

“Are you busy?” 

“I’m always busy,” he replies, standing up. He walks around the table, taking a sit down in front of me. “I have my group session in about thirty minutes, but I don’t think it’s going to last long, since it’s Friday, and plenty of boys are out for the weekend.” 

“Out for the weekend?” 

“You know, some have a leave permission. For example, Martin. The guy, who I told you is constantly irritated, but he’s also the same guy, who found you lying unconscious on the locker room floor. He usually leaves for the weekends to visit his diplomat dad in Copenhagen. He takes the train, and gets back Sunday evening, or Monday morning. That’s how a leave permission usually looks like.” 

“How long are you going to stay?” I smile gently, looking at him with curious eyes. “I got used to having you here, so now you can’t leave before I leave.”

“I’m probably going to stay for some time long.”

“I never asked, but why were you transferred?” 

“Not that I slept with my swimming coach, but I have large difficulties believing in what I used to believe in. That’s why I’m no longer _in_ church, but much rather out of it.”

“Interesting,” I say, scanning his face, posture, arms, stubble. I think he’s gorgeous, and I want to know if by any minimal chance he’s into men, but I also feel some kind of been there, done that, and I wouldn’t let myself make a same mistake again, although I’ve mastered a technique of perpetually making same mistakes again. “Should I leave now?” I ask him, my tone of voice casual. 

“I’m not really bothered by your presence, but I’ll have to go soon myself, so there’s no point in you staying here alone,” he tells me, while scribbling something over the papers I got used to constantly seeing. “One last thing before you go, Fernando.” 

“Mhm,” I reply, shifting in my chair. 

“Did you try to tell Daniel what you just told me?” 

“What do you mean?” I ask, surprised at the sudden change of topic. 

“You go around asking different people about Daniel and his past and his family, and I perfectly understand that you’re beyond curious, but what if you’d invest in an information exchange? Try to get to know him, talk to him, tell him something about yourself… Build a relation, even if you don’t know how to do it. Figuring out shortcuts sometimes takes a longer time than going all the way in, believe me.”

And it’s not that I disagree with him, even quite the contrary, but I’m reaching the limits of listening to preach talking. I always despised people telling me what to do and how to do it, and I was always willing to make a double portion of my own mistakes, rather than follow someone’s steps. Call it an immature blindness, but I was too stubborn to look even slightly beyond that.

“Thanks for the piece of advice I’m surely not going to use. Your help has been appreciated,” I tell him, pushing the chair out, standing up. I know it may seem like I’m running away from facing the uncomfortable, but I’m just _so_ sick of Steven claiming he knows what and how I feel towards Daniel, and this whole situation. “Have a nice day,” I say, looking at him for the last time before I calmly leave the room. And as I shut the door, there’s a tall and big body waiting right in front.

“Wow, watch where you’re standing,” I say gruffly, without looking at the face, turning smoothly aside.

“Watch where you’re going,” his voice catches me mid step and it is low and rough, making me turn my head in surprise. I scan his straightened posture, and I immediately recognize the irritated expression, and those accurately shaped cheek-bones, as if someone just took a knife and slid through clay.

“Why are you always here?” I ask, out of the blue, surprised even myself that this set of words leaves my throat. 

“I can ask you exactly same question,” he shoots back; blue eyes drilling inside of me. I freeze, realizing that once again I find myself in a similar scenario – unable to defend myself quickly and sharply. I stand there, half turned towards him, half willing to just shrug my shoulders and leave. Who the hell cares? Maybe I should just give him a perfectly cut piece of what he wants and (most of all) expects to hear from me; that I’ve been sucking _Mr. Gerrard’s_ dick on the regular and I have no shame in telling the world how I like the taste of it. Martin – now that I’m forced to refer to people by their names – knows that I’m gay, and he probably chose to offend me by assuming that I fuck or am fucked by everything that moves. Not that it would be so much of a lie, at least not before the summer started, but I feel like right in this moment, here, now, I’m not going to satisfy him with my colorful lie.

“I asked first,” I smile reluctantly, glad that this innocent, although very annoying come back turned up in my head.

“Really?” he asks again, this time there’s no irritation in his voice, but something else. Something more like irony, but the playful part of it. “What are you? Five?” 

“Six and a half,” I say quickly, smiling widely this time, feeling like I’m starting to enjoy this little, meaningless game. 

“Maybe I made it my personal goal to bump into you as much as possible?” and before I have the chance to reply, he’s the one to take a step forward. He’s the one to lean in, setting up that provocative note, glancing at me with sheer expectance. His eyes are insanely blue.

“So your answer is that you’re stalking me? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

He smiles fully. “Stalking sounds desperate. I’m not desperate. I’m never desperate, Fernando. I’m just setting up a trap around you, and you seem to follow the guidelines blindlessly.”

As he speaks, and I listen to his words carefully, I realize something very obvious. And very disturbing as well. The way his tongue twirls around the letters, and the way his eyes narrow, and the way his lips corners rise and drop, and his tone of voice deepen – I see myself in his ploy. I see myself in his boldness, in how close he gets to me, how he pushes against my personal zone. He has no shame in speaking, and he has no shame in lying. 

“I don’t have much to say,” I tell him, genuinely surprised by that sudden discovery. 

“Really? That’s not how I imagined you to be,” he says slowly, and I drown in his voice. In how familiar it sounds, and how that familiarity seems like an absurd. 

“I never wanted to be a disappointment,” I fake some kind of letdown, knowing he perfectly realizes that I’m trying to fool him.

“I heard you’re good,” he drags a letter after letter, eyes of his wandering all over my face, as if he would inwardly try to count the infinity of freckles I happen to have there. “But I’m better.”

“For the sake of my reputation here I should probably argue your statement, but then again, I’m not the one locked in this place, so yeah, maybe you are better. Congratulations, diplomat son.”

And it hits him, I know it hits him. It hits every diplomat son I’ve ever known. It’s like they’re set up to be a fiasco, and then it’s like they’re set up to recover from it their whole lives. Boohoo*. 

“Now, that’s exactly what I imagined you to be,” he’s calm and he’s cool, and his eyes are still cold, and there’s not an inch of a muscle visibly quivering, but I know it hit him. If we happen to share certain similarities – and the more he speaks, the more I realize we certainly do share a similar kind of crazy – he must be as insecure about his family bonds as I am. We sugar coat it, and we play many sad roles, but the moment you strongly call it out, the moment you target and you hit, it hurts. Simple as that. 

“Too bad I’m not here to satisfy your imagination,” I tell him, strongly, surely, with an intention to turn around and leave right after. 

“At least not now,” he replies immediately, but I don’t feel up for this kind of fun anymore. I shook him the last, flat glance and I turn around, walking slowly down the hallway. I know he’s still staring, so I move my head to the side, catching his gaze, noticing his eyes across the parting us length, and I’m suddenly scared. It’s not the deep within kind of scare, eating you up piece by piece until it’s done, but something right under your skin; pulsating, crawling, infusing. I fasten my pace, till the hallway merges with a large hall, and then I’m able to take a deeper breath.

What the actual fuck is happening here? This question pierces through my head, as I leave the building, now stopping at the front entrance, pausing before I go down the large stairs. I breathe in, I breath out. I saw Martin once, or twice… with Daniel’s brother. Once definitely with Daniel himself, here, right after I finished my training. The second time, well then I’m not sure, but surely before that, and before he found me in the locker room. Before him stepping out from Steven’s office, before… When? I’m not able to trace that. I just know he happens to be in valid places, at a valid time. Minutes ago he played out an easily misunderstood offer, and he served it to me on a silver plate. It didn’t feel threatening, it didn’t feel encouraging, it didn’t feel sexual. It was like an open display of who attacks better; who has a better offensive. Not that this kind of stunt was my first one, nor I felt intimidated by my new competitor, but something was hitting off in a disturbingly bad direction, and I still couldn’t figure out what it was. 

I take stairs down, and I sit on the verge of a last one, staring with eyes wide open towards the nothingness in the air. Long minutes pass by, as I still sit here, glancing into emptiness, going an event after event in my head, days spreading out in an odd form, not making much sense. There’s too much of Daniel everywhere in it, for me to clearly remember details. If there was anything, and I’m pretty sure there was, I must have overlooked it easily, having Dan notoriously in my mind. If I weren’t so aggressive in fighting my feelings, maybe I would have had more caution to notice all of everything else.

I take my phone out and I start typing. _Do you know anything about Martin who’s doing the summer recovery program in the facility?_ I wait another portion of long minutes before the reply comes beeping. **What recovery programe?** Now, how can I not question his brain capabilities? _Martin. The facility. This thing we call rehab. Rich kids, that’s how you talk about them. They have this recovery thing here, you know, talking and stuff._ Still long minutes. **Oh, okay.**????????? _So? Anything, Nick?_ This will probably take another lifetime. **No, sorry, not really. Nothing comes up.** Of course, no one knows anything once they’re supposed to know something.

I push my phone back inside the pocket, and I sigh. I close my eyes, I try to relax. I probably still have my usual expression on – bored, arrogant, with a little pout playing on my lips. I surely have a bit of red marking my cheeks, and maybe my eyes are slightly narrowed; I can’t control any of that. The first set is so long imposed; that chances are low it will ever leave. The second set; blush over my face, eyes concentration – know me a little better, and you’ll easily realize something is up. Well, something’s been up for the long fucking time, but I’ve been too blind.

I sit there for another fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, and I start coming to realization it probably is better to start getting in touch with Juergen, before he gets in touch with me. Nicklas is out on his date, Steven’s doing the group thing, grandma’s with her yoga circle friends doing yoga things, and … sad to say, but that’s it. No one else here to give me a little lift. And I’m sure as hell I’m not going to walk.

So when I’m about to take my phone out again, and trick Juergen into coming here, I notice some people out in the distance. I try to adjust my poor shortsighted vision, but minutes need to pass before I’m sure who it is I see moving further in. Three dots are getting bigger and bigger, until I realize they’re biking. Until I realize it is Daniel, and his brother, and someone else I have no idea who it might be. My lips clench, and my palms get sweaty. I quickly look around, wondering what are my options. And I come to a very saddening conclusion that I have none. There is no way for me to disappear in a wooing, abracadabra way. There is no way for me to disperse. I decided to sit on these damn fucking stairs, so now I’ll be fucking damned. I start nodding my head, as if I’d non-verbally try to tell the public: fucking unbelievable. Daniel, his brother, and the third one are stopping meters away, at the bike stand. They smoothly zip the bikes up, and walk away. I follow their moves, waiting for some kind of acknowledgment. And it comes, of course it comes. The first person to look up towards me is the unidentified guy. He gives me a quick check-out, and then his head slowly turns around. He nods at Daniel’s brother, but that’s it. Then, Daniel’s brother, he gives me a quick check-out too. His eyes bear the same kind of hatred, and he even smiles with that awful, usual manner. Still, that’s it. Not even a blink of an eye more. Daniel, on the other hand, he’s much more hesitant. I stare at him intensively, and I can easily tell how awkward it is for him to pass underneath my examining look. They take the stairs up, one goes right after the other. Daniel at the end. They stop at the very top, in front of the entrance. My head is now shamelessly turned aside, my gaze looking over their postures. They talk for some minutes. Discuss. They ignore me; although I’m quite sure that they feel the kind of observation they’re under now. Finally, Daniel’s brother and this unknown to my memory guy walk inside the facility. Daniel stays on his own. Our looks match, and we exchange a glance, but I’m the first one to look away. Surprisingly. I take a deep breath, realizing that I should be on my way home. Safe and sound. Locked inside. What was I even thinking? Again, I’m about to reach for my phone, when I hear the sound of steps behind. Loud, clear, regular, sure. Getting louder and louder with time. I hold my exhale in, until I see him, with a corner of my eye, sitting down next to me. It’s not that I’m shocked, but that doubtful part of me makes me turn my head to really check, whether it is Daniel sitting down next to me. I feel his arm brushing, his old, worn-out leather jacket makes that squeaky noise.

“You really do have plenty of nerve to sit down here next to me, Daniel. Plenty.”

His head is not turning. His arm is still brushing against mine, and I feel warmth vibrating from his side. I expect an answer, even though I know it is not going to come any time soon. Or ever. 

“What if your brother and his maid are going to come out of the building in twenty-five seconds and see you sitting next to me like that? Should I prepare myself to get my head bashed this time?”

His head is still not turning, but mine is. It is moving between observing Daniel’s profile, and observing the main entrance. Once again, I feel this kind of vibrating underneath my skin kind of fear. Why, why, why? 

“Fine,” I say, suddenly getting around to stand up. I move, I really do move. I get up, but I feel his hand clenching around mine, pulling me down. “Don’t fucking touch me,” I hiss out, anger spitting out of my mouth, as I find myself sitting next to him once again. This is frustrating.

He reaches for something inside of his leather jacket pocket, and it is a small, spiral notebook with blank pages and a pencil. He writes down: _I want you to come with me somewhere._  

„Ha-ha-ha” leaves my throat, almost hysterically, almost too loud. “You’re out of your fucking mind. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

He rips off that page. Crushes it inside of his palm. It lands inside the jacket pocket. He stands up, walking towards the bikes. He unzips one, then the other. He guides both of them here, almost right next to my feet. I start to laugh. “I couldn’t move last week on my own, and now you want me to ride a bike?”

He’s not answering. He’s not smiling. He’s waiting. “I’m not going to do it. I’m not going to do it. Forget about it.”

He’s still waiting, although I notice how his eyes look up. He checks the entrance. Then, his eyes turn towards me, and suddenly his right arm straightens, palm open. It is an invitation, a very straight-forward one, but I’m sure I’m not going to take it. “Move your hand away. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

His palm is still open, and I start to look to the sides, because his gaze is too intrusive, and his hand is too close. I angrily bite my lower lip, and I stand up. Obviously, I fucking stand up. I may have no other option though, if you think about it now: they may come out soon and I’ll have my head bashed, or shot through. With Daniel I may have my head bashed or shot through too, I see that possibility, of course, but before it unfolds I’ll have many more chances to get away.

“Is it far from here?” I ask, as I take the bike from him, quickly adjusting the seat, getting on.

He nods his head in a disapproving way, and I highly doubt whether that kind of nod is something trust-worthy. But that’s probably the only answer coming any time soon. Or ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I have a very good friend, who abuses this term with absolute love towards the reaction it causes. She kind of introduced it to me, and now I’m the one abusing it in the least politically correct moments. It looked odd to me written in pixels, I’ll give you that, but then I saw it playing in Fernando’s mind, and I thought a flatly expressed boohoo would be something he definitely would abuse on his own terms, and it would definitely happen in the least politically correct moments.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	14. 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really don't know why, but it's the first chapter in a long time, probably the first after Daniel's POV that I'm so afraid to post up. It has almost ten thousand words, but I feel like not one is worth a damn. (Not really a good advertising I'm doing myself here, but ughughughugh.)

 

 

 

 

 _I’m pretty fucking sure I’ll die in about twenty minutes,_ ironic voice speeds through my head, as I bike after Daniel, staring meticulously into his back. I try to ignore nagging, repeating thoughts about death, or Daniel’s brother catching us somewhere mid-way (which kind of equals death too, if you think about it), but I can’t. I stare into his back, meticulously as I said before, I stare into the blackness of his leather jacket, I try to count the cracks inside the worn-out material, but I loose count easily. I’m nervous, without really feeling nervous. I’m excited, without really feeling excited. I’m paranoid, willing, stupid alongside of it all too. Considering I’m a sane (debatable) human being, how can I constantly push myself into situations that place me in the heart of danger? 

Daniel keeps looking back, as if checking that I’m still here. That I’m still biking right behind him, that I didn’t decide to quit, and runaway. But I should, shouldn’t I? Yet this difficult, and strong sense of power was and still is lining me up behind his back, and probably no amount of sanity is  going to save me from the obvious disaster that this trip is going to cause. 

But the trees are slowly drifting together in this calm, sensible way, and there is no sign of anything unusual drifting in-between them. For a split of a second I think it maybe is too calm, too sensible, too quiet – like the soft, but nervous kind of quiet right before the storm, but then Daniel’s head jerks to the side, and for the first time today he breaks a smile. I have no idea why, but it makes me smile too. Not now, though. I smile, when his head jerks back. When he no longer can see my lips up; curling gently, shyly. 

Soon, Daniel stops, getting off the bike. I stop next to him, a meter away, although I’m still sitting down, no intention to immediately get back up. The road in front of us is the same looking road that we’ve been biking down for the past twenty, maybe thirty minutes. My ribs hurt, when I straighten my back, but also when I try to lean forward. It’s a sharp, sudden pain. A similar one vibrates down my legs, and it makes me sick, thinking how weak my body has gotten over the whole month that I have already been here. Not only my body, but me, most of all. Me as a whole. A boy who’s beaten me down to a begging, squirming shit is standing next to me, and all I’ll probably do is that I’ll follow him, wherever he pleases to take me. He didn’t even fight his way back to me, because I welcomed him with arms wide open, spitting useless words of disagreement only for a span of a second. 

He has a whole lot of nerve to look at me like that. He really does. Daniel’s eyes are staring into my eyes; no shame, no regret, no apology. That emptiness beaming from his glance is still there, nothing has changed, but I suddenly realize that this emptiness is what makes me drown. It’s like there is no end to his stare, no end to whatever there is inside of him. Maybe that’s the source of addiction; maybe that’s the power pulling all of me. 

“Now what?” I ask, arms shrugging. “That’s it? That’s what you wanted to show me? The same looking road leading to nowhere?” 

I see him taking out that familiar notebook. Hand scribbling over a small, blank page. Soon after he lifts up the notebook. _I discovered things would be easier if you’d keep your mouth shut for a better part of the time._ That’s fucking it. I maneuver the handlebar, about to roll my feet, bike away, but I hear his bike falling down, as he drops it, and I see him in front of me in no time. His hands keeping the bar steady, blocking my way. 

“I’ll run you over if you don’t move. I promise,” I stare into his eyes, into his face, and I see him smiling. “You really think this is funny?” And now, he smiles even wider. “Just fucking let me go, okay?” and he flips a page in the notebook once again, head lowering, hand quickly moving. _Trust me_ , he writes, and I hear it in my head, over and over again. Only when I look up to face him, I no longer see him smiling. His features serious, eyes focused. 

“You really have no idea what you’re asking for,” I tell him, but I get off of my bike. Turning back, moving towards his, now lying on the ground. He quickly follows, getting his bicycle. Daniel starts walking, keeping his bike next to him, diverting from the main road, and stepping onto the trodden trail. Me, on the other hand, I’m standing on the verge. Feet both on the concrete, unsure of moving forward. But honestly speaking, time to undo what’s been done here is long past me. So I walk, leading my bike forward with right hand. Daniel is meters away, walking surely, back straight, arms loose. He leads his bike with a right hand as well. He doesn’t look back to check on me. He trusts me. 

The grass is getting higher and higher, now almost reaching my knees. It smells of freshness, and summer, and flowers, and I can’t really remember the last time I was so intimate with nature. Oh, well, that time I blew Daniel in the woods, that was quite intimate. But apart from that, apart from the hours I spent chopping on the field, and breathing in fresh air, I’m not really nature kind of a person. I go to parks occasionally in Madrid, I don’t smell flowers when they encouraginly blossom, and I rarely stop to admire a breath-taking view. It’s a common feature among teenagers, I believe, a feature that starts to grow much different with years, when there’s nothing else to admire in your life other than nature. Or, you realize there’s nothing better to admire in your life other than nature. But here, now, all of that green and all of that wind, and trees moving, and endless hillsides that roll, and roll to infinity, are something that I do quite speechlessly admire. A small part of me is afraid that I’ll never look at a beautiful, calm, village view again without thinking about Daniel. 

We enter the forrest, which looks exactly the same as the forrest near the bonfire place, but deep inside I know it isn’t. The bonfire place is in the village, whereas we’re here, kilometers and kilometers away. It’s just that every forrest looks the same to me; giving me a claustrophobic, breathless feeling. Trees’ crowns hover high over, all together composing a safety buffer, a hidden treasure far away from the bitter, grey reality. I can’t see the clearness of a blue sky, I can’t hear anything else than the rapid breathing of the woods; it’s own life-beating, heart pulsation. Daniel’s footsteps are regular, slow, well-heard among all other sounds being given out by the forrest. I start turning my head, suddenly feeling that familiar, right underneath my skin kind of fear. I remember that time, us together between the hundreds of trees, and the group… Now, with everything that previously happened, all the puzzles I helplessly try to collect, it all makes me think of a certain group. There is a group; there must be a group, which links seemingly same, but surely different people. I clearly remember hearing a bunch of footsteps, a bunch of voices – it wasn’t some kind of a lunatic, a maniac on the loose. A singular. It’s a group, and they’re up for something, constantly sniffing around, as they did that one, summer night, two, almost three weeks ago. 

So absent in my thoughts, I don’t even notice the moment we leave the forrest. It happens so quickly, so smoothly, that I turn my head in disbelieve, realizing that I would be completely unable to get back to the main road on my own. Oddly, I don’t feel scared anymore. There’s nothing creeping in underneath my skin, nothing whispering behind my ear, no ironic voice, no kind of annoying narration. The trees are left behind; grass still high up till my knees, and Daniel is in front. The more we move forward, the better I see some kind of a free-standing building. For some time, I’m quite sure we’re just going to walk past it, but then as we get closer, I notice that the path is trodden, that Daniel’s pace gets slower, that his posture and his moves show no evidence of picking another way. The building, now that I see it much better from up close, looks old, abandoned, worn out. But I wouldn’t describe it as creepy, or haunted. There is no scary factor included; nothing horror-like, no possessions, odd sensations. Somewhere far back in my head, I even think it looks _ordinary._ It’s a house like many others built in the heart of a village, with a small difference being that this one isn’t built in the heart of a village. It’s in the heart of nowhere. Like a time-loop you accidentally enter, discovering a new, unknown and magical world, afraid that once you leave you’ll never be able to come back here again. 

Daniel stops a meter from the porch stairs, leaning his bike against the wood, which looks like it hasn’t been painted in fifty years; cracking, and falling down at the bottoms. He stands side-turned, leaving me an empty passage. For a brief second I doubt, whether I should be coming up, whether it is safe for me choosing to go in, whether it maybe is the last, final chance to stop this whole thing from spinning. But even if it is, I decide not to act on it. I decide to throw that seemingly last, final chance to turn things around, and I move forward. I walk up the stairs, hearing the wood cracking underneath the weight of my body. I walk slowly, soon facing the door. I wonder, if we need a key, if we need permission, if we’re about to meet someone else. I wonder, but once again I don’t act on my suspicions. 

Pushing the door open, I feel Daniel’s presence right behind my arm. Even though he stands close, and I hear his breath – slow, and systematic, almost as arranged – I don’t think he’s fearful, afraid of the unknown. Suddenly, as insides of the house unfold to my eyes, I realize that he’s welcoming me into a place he already well knows. A place he is familiar with, a place he wants to show me, because it means something to him. (Although I may change my mind, once I get a surprise baseball bat hit over my forehead.)

As I step inside, I look around quite suspiciously, and I know he notices that. There is no standard wardrobe or stack of shoes standing by the door. Once you enter, you are immediately exposed to  medium-large, wooden stairs, and their quality is comparable to the porch ones. Definitely wouldn’t bet my life on it. On my left, there’s a round table with two chairs, although it could fit at least a double more. On my right, there’s a kitchen counter, and all the kitchen equipment looking oddly similar to all other kitchen equipment I’ve seen in my life, with a tiny bit of difference I only catch now. It’s extremely old. There’s a lonely standing sofa far left end, nearby the round table, but there’s no TV, no stereo, no armchairs, no book holders, _nothing_. I quickly turn around to face Daniel.

“What is this place?” and I turn back, quickly scanning it again. The furniture looks old, and entirely out of our current times, but it doesn’t look abandoned, unused. Someone’s living here, now I’m sure.

Without looking back twice, without asking for permission, I walk forward, taking stairs up. I hear them cracking; one after the other, one after the other, and for a moment I feel unnaturally scared, realizing that I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be here with Daniel, I shouldn’t be here in Denmark, I shouldn’t be doing what I’m always doing, but these thoughts as quickly as they come to me, as quickly they leave. Upstairs, there is a large corridor, and you can go either left or right. What I immediately notice is that the paintings are lying on the floor, leaning against the walls. There are hundreds of them, and each represents a different genre, although I can’t be sure, since the lightning is poor, and I don’t see a switch anywhere close here. Doors are all closed, wood dark, unwelcoming. I have no idea where to go, or which one to open, so I’m standing here, waiting for Daniel to move. And he does move. He walks past me, opening doors first on the right. When he quickly disappears inside, I decide to follow him. Slowly, I move forward, stopping only when I find myself by the door frame. Wooden floor is painted white, but it’s old, now the color changed into a rotting kind of gray. I can only suspect it was white once, or that the intention was to keep it white over the time. Results poor, I admit. There’s a big mattress lying on that greyish floor, pushed far back till the wall. But it is a mattress only; there is no bed, no bed-sheets, no beautifully polished pillows. What I notice in the corner is some kind of an old, striped blanket. My grandma has a similar one lying in the box of things dated back to the 70’s. Nothing covers the mattress, it lies here bare as it probably left the production line. On the left, there’s a desk, and I see Daniel sitting down on the verge of it, observing me. His arms are crossed over his chest, face remaining emotionless. I wonder if he’s nervous, because I’m nervous. My palms open, and close with a mere strength, getting a bit sweaty now. 

“Do you live here?“ I ask, suddenly, as I still stand in the passage, leaning against the wooden frame. “Is that a place you come to, when people say you disappear?”

I think he’s a bit surprised, that I said he disappears. I think he maybe hoped, or expected me not to know. I think he wanted to show me this himself, and then shape the story, explaining why and how. Maybe he’s afraid, that people told me a bunch of idiotic, far derived from truth things, and I consider him a sick psycho now. 

I walk towards him, stopping only a bit in front. He still has his arms crossed over his chest. “I know I told you before that you’re _fucking crazy_ , but I didn’t mean it. I don’t think you’re a psycho. Everyone has their thing, you know,” I shrug my shoulders, looking him in the face. But then, I turn a bit, and I walk away, sitting down on the mattress. “It’s kind of cozy here,” I say, looking around, and then right after an awkward bit of silence appears. I see his lips twitch in about-to-laugh manner, and then it’s me loudly bursting out. “I’m sorry,” I mumble in between chaotic, spasmatic laughs. “This place is a real shithole, I’ll give you that.”

Daniel finally moves from the table, stepping slowly in my direction. I’m still laughing, now maybe less spasmatically, more underneath my nose, until he sits next to me, and I swallow my breath, shutting up. He’s so close, that his knee inevitably touches the side of mine, and I realize that for once we’re truly alone. That there is nothing else surrounding us than some lonely walls, in a place which seems untraceable, where time stops ticking, and air weighs lightly on our shoulders. I turn my head slightly to look at him, and I see him looking at me as well. Side-glancing, with one eye shyly circulating in order to get a mild connection. Suddenly it gets so quiet, that I hear my own breathing, and I deeply hope he doesn’t hear it. It’s irregular, and short; so short I feel it on my lips, and not an inch further. Daniel’s head now fully turns towards me, and I see him staring right into my eyes. I wish I am so unreadable, and so emotionless to him as he is to me, but I know I’m not. And no matter how successful I’m in pushing people away, he always finds a way in. Sneakily, unsuspiciously, effortlessly. As it takes nothing to break me. 

His warm, and large hand lands on my cheek – the one with a softened shade of a bruise, a replica of my own stupidity – and it caresses the skin, although it isn’t moving. His right hand just lies here, fingertips softly skimming over my ear, but it is such a delicate move, that it may actually not be there. I desperately want to say something, because silence isn’t really the best of my allies, but I feel some kind of ball pushed down my throat. And it grows and grows with every passing second, making it impossible for me to swallow, or breath, much less talk. Maybe, in the end, it’s for the better. 

Suddenly, he gives me a large, full smile, and he takes his hand down, leaving me with an odd feeling of some kind of emptiness. Daniel’s head moves to its initial place, he’s now looking forward, his knee no longer brushing against mine. It takes a couple of seconds for me to realize, that the moment passed, that the closeness is no longer there. I finally breath out, as if I was holding my breath for past three hundred years. _What is wrong with you,_ goes through my head, speeds, as all other words were speeding before. There is no slow in my mind, no calm, never. 

I lean forward, softly moving to the side, pressing with my thigh against his thigh. I want him to feel me. I want him to know that I’m right here, beside him, that I want him, and that I want his body pressed against mine, fully. Maybe it is easier for him to wait, since he has never been physical with anyone before. Maybe it is easier to hold yourself, if you never had your needs satisfied. Because once you do, there is no coming back to waiting. There is no time to wait. 

I hang over his ear, unsure of whether I want to lick it, bite it, or suck it. “Can I kiss you?” I ask lightly, whispering, words falling off of my mouth so quietly, that there’s a chance he didn’t catch it. But soon – the kind of soon which still feels a bit too long – his head moves aside, very slowly. His eyes are wide open, greyish, and pulsating with color. I think they darken within seconds. He looks at me, no answer leaving his mouth, but I see his lips part a bit. Not in a welcoming gesture, though. He just breathes out faster. My leg and my arm are both pressing against him, and his head is just centimeters away from mine, but it feels absurdly distant. “Have you ever kissed anyone before?” I ask another question, realizing I sound like a curious, six year old child, only my voice is low, and quiet, and I lack that stupid, childish, naive grin. I’m serious, feeling like I haven’t been this serious in a long time. The way he looks at me now, with some kind of doubt beaming from his eyes, I know it’s a _no._ I kind of knew it before. Knew it all along. “It’s fine,” I murmur, and it is the last thing I say, before my lips touch his. It’s not a kiss, not really that much of it, I just let my lips touch his, or his touch mine, and I melt in a feeling of warmth, and wet. I prop both of my hands on his right thigh, fingers slightly digging into a raw material of his jeans. Daniel’s mouth doesn’t open, and I don’t force it. My upper lip fits in-between his lips, and my lower one delicately wets a part of his skin. I realize I kept my eyes closed, only when I move back a little, opening them. 

There is silence. Actually, quite a lot of it. We look at each other, and I wonder whether I just made the biggest mistake of it all. My hands are still on his thigh, though my fingers are not digging in anymore. I breath loudly, and I hear him breathing too. I can’t tell whether he liked it, enjoyed it, hated it, hated me, now that maybe he hates me still, but suddenly, he leans closer, and now it is his lips touching mine. It’s still not a kiss, something more of a placement, putting things all together, trying to be precise, trying not to slip up, but his hand lands in a same place it landed before – caressing my cheek, fingertips skimming over my skin, and I open my mouth. I open my mouth, because I want his tongue, and I want his spit, and I want his teeth, and I want it all combined with mine. 

I pull at his t-shirt, quite unknowingly, still gently, as if wordlessly trying to inform him, that I want _more._ That I’m greedy, and that I’ve been greedy for him this whole time. Once his tongue slides inside my mouth, I can taste his shyness, and his doubt, his spit too. There isn’t a lot of teeth involved, he doesn’t bite my lips, he doesn’t suck on them, instead he explores the insides of my mouth curiously, sometimes pushing a bit too hard, sometimes just missing a twirl around my tongue. But I like it; I like the warmth of his mouth, I like how his jaw moves, and how at moments I turn to left, and he turns to left too, and then we both go right, and we clash. 

“Take your jacket off,” I mumble into his mouth, and before he has a chance to move I push the heavy, leather material off of his shoulders, dropping it to the floor, next to the mattress. I shift back, spreading my legs slightly. My head lands close to the wall, since I’m lying across mattress width, and not length. I want to move to lie properly, so we would have more space, but Daniel is already in between my legs, placing his hands a bit above of my shoulders. The moment I feel his body on top of me, covering me fully, pressing with its strength, I moan for the first time today. I moan loudly, as if gasping for air, begging for relief, which I falsely thought would come with this feeling – with having him, and the weight of his body over me. He digs his elbows into the bare material of the mattress, his hands now covering the sides of my face. He looks into my eyes, and it is a long look, much too long, when it comes to given situation. I want him to move; to grind, press against me abruptly, create friction, give me _more._

He kisses me again. This time his tongue slides in immediately, and it goes around a bit faster, responding to my nagging needs. I remember, when I was younger I always read in some books that kissing your lover is a sweet, sweet thing. That their lips taste like delicious strawberries, picked in a southern, warm, sun. I remember, later on, always looking for that sweetness, for that tasty sensation with all of the lovers I got on my own, but it was never there. The sweetness stayed in the books, between the words, and all I found myself drowning in was some kind of rawness. My eyes are closed, and Daniel’s tongue isn’t sweet. He kisses me gently, sufficiently, the way I like to be kissed. And it is only then, between some other, countless twirl of his tongue, that he finally moves, and I moan loudly the second time. I hope that this moan stays on his lips, that he can later taste it on his tongue. He moves again, hips roughly sliding against mine, once again, now harder. I pull back from the kiss, breathing loudly. In the quiet, silenced space of this room, the only thing we can both hear is my breathing, as if put on speaker, progressively volumed. 

I lift my head up, so it presses against Daniel’s forehead. For a brief second, I’m looking into his eyes, but then I slightly pull away, and I look between our clenched bodies. We’re both hard. My hand reaches to touch his cheek, but it is there only for as long as _now_ lasts, and then it moves down. My fingertips cross his neck, and his skin is so pale I want to suck on it. Grasp it in between my lips, and suck for so long till there’s a purple, reddish bruise. I want to leave his neck bruised. I want him marked, I want him _mine_. As much as he wanted me to be bruised, to be scarred, to be _his._ I lick the skin instead, breathing out loudly onto its surface. My hand is going down his torso, and I’m tempted by a sudden idea of ripping his t-shirt apart. I grab at Daniel’s bulge, feeling a sudden shudder spinning through his body. I look at his face, and I see as he swallows. His Adam’s apple moving fast, his jawline clenching. “I’d die to hear you moan,” I blurt out carelessly, driven by lust and crave, rather than a cold realization of what it is to die for someone’s vocalized signs of pleasure. But if it was an imaginary game, and this was an imaginary world, I’d die for his moans. I would, really. 

Suddenly, Daniel grabs my hand, and pulls it back. He holds my wrist tightly, strongly, and he takes my other hand, pulling both of them together over my head. His head lowers, and he kisses my chin. And then he kisses an inch lower, and lower, until he makes his way down to the vibrating veins, covered by a thin layer of already burning skin. I’m feeling hot, my back is sweating, as I try to move underneath him, wiggling helplessly. He gently bites my skin, and it isn’t only one bite, but a continuous play of his teeth clamping against. One bite after the other, until he reaches my collarbones, and buries his face in between them, smelling me. I feel this overwhelming need to pull at his hair, but Daniel is still locking my wrists in a tight, almost violent embrace, and I can’t do anything, but to writhe desperately underneath him. 

He sits back, releasing my hands. And I think that it is a moment for me to take over control, to push him back, to top him, and ride him, and undress him, and let him fuck me, or let me fuck him, but it _isn’t._ To my genuine surprise, and long awaited relief too, he tugs the bottom of my useless, ugly t-shirt (which I would obviously change, if I knew I was to be undressed today), and pulling it over my head, he throws it away. I suspect we’re going to keep some kind of chronology here, that it is going to be a step-by-step thing, but he surprises me once again, when he leans forward to undo my jeans. The moment his hands are struggling with the zipper, I prop myself on my elbows, breathing out heavily. Jeans are gone until I can tell him to do otherwise, but who am I trying to fool this time?

I lie on that bare mattress, with only some grey, ugly boxers on. I’m here _almost_ naked, and he’s _almost_ fully dressed. That should be called playing an unfair game, because he again has me the way he wants to have me, and I obey. For a moment I think about Sergio, and how he liked to have me, and I realize that Sergio probably never undressed me. I undressed myself. I took my clothes off – my _fucking_ God; I urge a crying, surprising moan, when I feel Daniel burying his face in the crook between the inside of my thigh, and my crotch. I want to look up, because it feels surreal, and once I do, I see his face now a bit above, lips smearing the sensitive, warm skin of my abdomen. He doesn’t kiss me there, he doesn’t lick me, he doesn’t bite me, it’s different. He breathes out onto my skin, lips just moving across, tracing. It’s a path going up my body, although I would much gladly send it down. His hands are tightly keeping my sides, while his lips just move _across_ , _across_ , and _across_ , and it feels like he’s helplessly looking for something, discovering, well, like he’s discovering _me._ When he locks one of my nipples between his lips, sucking like you suck a candy, my eyes roll with a sudden hit of pleasure. I’m loosing it now. Loosing it, completely. I spread my legs wider, inevitably, wanting him between as much as possible; although wanting him inside of me probably more than it is possible. He sucks my nipple until it hurts, until it’s swollen, until he does not suck it anymore, and he moves up, while I exhale with relief. It is getting a bit _too much_ for me now; too much of circulating on the endless verge. Too much of keeping me in some sort of begging, pleading state, where I can’t help myself, because it feels both good and bad. No one ever taught me how to wait, and most of all, no one ever expected me to wait. No one ever wanted me to wait. Everything always happened quickly, maybe even too quickly. 

Daniel is now looking into my eyes, his face only millimeters away from mine. Fingers of his left hand are circling around my lips, giving it a better shape. He slides three of them inside my mouth, and I suck like I would suck his cock. He watches me entranced and I smile playfully, mouth full, spit starting to slowly drip down my chin. I stop, only when I feel fingers of his right hand pulling at the waistband of my boxers, sliding them down. He takes his fingers out of my mouth, and now both of his hands are taking my underwear off. Daniel doesn’t follow the movement of his hands with his eyes. They are still locked with mine in an oddly intimate exchange. I’m embarrassed. I want him to look away, I want his eyes to be occupied with my cock, my balls, my stomach, my everything else. Not this. Don’t look at, or into me like that. Don’t breath so loudly into my mouth, don’t want my lips. Just go with it mindlessly, automatically, like it just doesn’t really matter. 

He goes down on me. _Literally._ Before I have a chance to take his sweatshirt off, before I have a chance to do just anything; he goes down on me. There is no pathway of kisses, licks, bites, nothing prolonging that outward gesture. I just see him moving back, off from the mattress, kneeling on the floor, parting my knees further, leaning in –– I want him to stop. “You don’t have to do this,” I tell him, my head up, the upper part of my body being supported by my elbows digging inside the mattress. He looks at me for a brief second, and then his head lowers, connection breaks, and he kisses the inner part of my thigh. I murmur something incoherent, something of no importance. I want him to stop, I don’t need him to do this. I really shouldn’t be the first person he blows. It should be someone else. Someone with a prettier cock, matching boxers, less ignorant. Someone who will take him out for dates, and leave sweet, caring goodnight notes. Or, at least send a text. 

“You can just fuck me instead,” I say, voice hoarse, and broken. “Really, Daniel, it –” my mouth shuts wordlessly, as his tongue slides through the length of my cock. Slowly. Then, he moves up, licking the tip of my cock. He makes a circle, then the second one, and third, until I can’t shut myself, and I moan for the fourth one. He gives it to me five times, until I grab a handful of his hair, pulling further. He takes me inch by inch, until I can feel the back of his throat. And even then, I want to push further. I want to fuck his throat, like he fucked mine. But I also want him to taste me, and wet me, and spit on me. God, he has such a tight, little mouth. My head jerks up a bit from the mattress, and I observe him, dwelling on the beauty of this image. His face between my thighs. His throat filled with my cock. His cheeks clenched and red. His palms pinning down my hips. His eyes closed. His lips swollen. His body covered with clothes, and mine fully naked – underneath him. My thighs are open for him, and the first bits of my pre-cum are leaking from the corners of his lips. _Nasty._ But pleasure pulsates already nervously in the heart of my abdomen, my back arching. The more I look, the more it drives me insane, so I stop looking. I rest my head against the mattress, I stare at the ceiling, I don’t blink, and I moan. I moan desperately, when he gets deeper, and I moan shortly, when he sucks on the sides. I cry with pleasure, when he bites the tip, and I cry with pleasure, when he stops doing anything at all. I move my head up suddenly, and I see him looking at me, wiping his lips with his hand. _Fuck._ He gets on his knees, leaning forward, and he grabs my chin, placing a rough, aggressive kiss. The insides of his mouth taste like my cum, and my cock, but they also taste like _him_ ; although I can’t be that sure, because I did not kiss him long enough to know what is _his_ taste. And even now, I’m not kissing him long enough, because he breaks apart from my lips. I pull at his sweatshirt with both of my hands, pressing my mouth against his ear. “Make me come for you.”

And it doesn’t take long, because once he gets back between my tired, pulled wide apart thighs, I swallow back a parched, hidden scream. A strong pang of pleasure shoots through my spine, and every other bone, as he takes me fully, deeply, until I can feel his throat close impossibly. “Stop,” I say quietly, my fingers no longer locked between his hair, but now just desperately pulling at the mattress, dragging my nails over the bare surface. “Please, stop,” I say again, hoping this time it’s louder. Obviously, he stops, and I see him nervously looking up. I don’t want to come into his mouth, and I’m already close. I want to come into his mouth, filling the insides with my cum, of course I fucking want to, but I _can’t_. Not with him, maybe, just not with him. He keeps the look for a second, two, three seconds more, and then it’s just one, not even full slide in. He takes me half-deep, half-fast, and my eyes shut. There’s no scream. No sound. My back arches, and my head moves to the left, cheek pressing against the mattress. I just hear my chaotic breath. Feels like one exhale isn’t even finished, until another one comes again. I shudder, and shudder, and shudder, until I can’t move anymore, and I can’t breath anymore, and my thighs slowly come together, but they’re quivering. 

I hear Daniel moving, and I feel him slumping against the mattress, next to my naked body. But I still have my eyes closed, and I’m still drowning in the post-orgasm feelings. It is only now that my muscles relax, and my breathing becomes regular; soft and quiet. My chest is light, and the burning pulsation gone. I want to cover myself, but all of my clothing is somewhere on the floor,  the blanket in the far end corner, and I don’t have enough of energy to move. 

I open my eyes, looking to the side, observing Daniel’s profile. His eyes are open, he’s staring into the ceiling whiteness, his chest moving fast, although I don’t hear his breath being loud or irregular. I don’t really know what to say, because a simple _thank you_ will sound stupid and forced. _You really shouldn’t have to_ will sound offensive, and it isn’t like I’m not satisfied with the results. _I like you a lot –_ which now suddenly comes to my head and I don’t know why – will sound like I try to pat him on the shoulder, and I don’t want him to think that I like him only now, after he gave me a head. I think I even liked him before I blew him. I liked him, when he pulled me away from the group’s boss at the chopping field. When his stone-strong arms clenched around my waist, stopping me. I liked him even when he punched my face ten times, and I liked him even, when he told me to shut up. I mean, when he _wrote_ that I should shut up. I liked him, because he showed early on he knows how to stop me. 

I turn to lie on my side, moving closer to him. Now my stomach touches his hip, and my chin is pressed against his arm. I like how his clothes smell, I suddenly realize, and I bury my nose in the soft material of his sweatshirt. He doesn’t smell like expensive cologne, or wood and grass, but rather something fresh and warm. Something familiar, even when I can’t really recognize it. I slowly move my hand across his torso, not touching him. I gently run through his jawline with my fingers, and then across his cheek, placing my hand there. I feel a bit of his growing stubble, and I feel warmth vibrating from his skin. I want to kiss him, and I want to kiss him badly. I lift up, leaning in, and I look into his eyes briefly, but I’m not searching for approval; I’m not asking for permission. I just kiss him, because I genuinely feel like doing so, and he tastes _fine._ It’s still not the strawberries, and still not the sweetness, and there’s maybe a bit too much of _me,_ but he tastes fine. There isn’t a lot of tongue, not that much of teeth, it’s all very lazy, and I pull away soon. My hand moves from his cheek, and it reaches his jeans zipper. I undo the button, and then pull the zipper slowly; his cock hard underneath the material of black boxers. I drag his jeans a bit down, in a sort of clumsy way, since my other arm lies on the mattress, supporting my weight. I drag them till the mid length of his thighs, wetting my lips, as I stare onto the visible hardness in his pants. My nails scratch the inner part of his thigh, moving up. I place my hand over his cock, massaging its length slowly. I lift up, licking his earlobe with a tip of my tongue, and then gently sucking it. “What do you want me to do?” I whisper, not expecting an answer. His head tilts to the side, and our eyes match. There is nothing in his eyes that I would find familiar; that ongoing emptiness gone. His lips red and swollen, breath hot and sudden. I pull his boxers down, and I grab his cock. It’s hard, probably painfully hard to him, so I just give him a strong, sharp stroke, and I see his eyes shut immediately, mouth opening. He hides his face in the crook of his elbow, and I start licking and sucking the skin on his neck. I know this all is purely to bring him relief, much rather than pleasure. I know this isn’t to satisfy his senses, but to take the pressure off. My hand moves regularly, and sharply. Quickly; getting quicker with each, precise stroke. I pause only to spit on my hand, and once I clench it around his cock, so wet and slick, I see his pre-cum leaking. Then, it is just three strokes, and he comes hard, cumming into my palm. I don’t see his face, because it’s still buried in the crook of his inner arm, but his other hand pulls at my hair, and I let him. I lower my head, but it isn’t his hand that guides me. I just want to taste him, so I lick off the rest of his cum from his thighs. Once I part away, I see him observing me, but his look is more of an absent kind. I breath loudly, moving up. I wipe my hand against the mattress, getting rid of the rest of his sperm. I’m still sitting next to him, but my back is now leaning against the cold wall, and my legs are straightened. I’m naked, and his jeans and boxers are pulled only till the line of his mid thighs. Soon, he drags the black material up, covering his cock. 

I think. I think about Sergio, and I think about my coach, and I think about other boys and men that I’ve been intimate with. I think about their cocks, or how their moans sounded. I think about how their faces looked like, when they were coming, and how their cum tasted, when it shot over their stomachs, thighs, my hands, or my stomach, and my thighs. Or my mouth, or my ass, or the inside of my ass. I think about how they kissed me, how they fucked me, how they talked to me, how they sucked me, how they pulled my hair, and smacked my ass. I think about their emotionless eyes, and their emotionless breaths. I think about their parched throats, and lack of words. And even then, even when I’m seemingly not thinking about Daniel, I feel like in the midst of all these thoughts, I’m thinking exactly about him. 

My phone starts ringing, and it’s a painful sound, which brings me right back to where I am; the colors are harsh, and my feet still look disproportional now that I quickly glance over them, moving across the matress to get to my clothing, lying on the floor. I have extremely ugly feet; crooked, pale, not long enough. When I was eleven, my coach told me that I’ll never be an Olympic swimmer with those feet, and I remember spending every evening for endless months, pulling my toes further on, hoping and praying that they would get longer. Didn’t really help.

 _Juergen,_ displays on the screen, and I don’t think twice before picking up. “Hi,” I say casually to the speaker, and there is no pause, no warning exhale of breaths. “ _Why do I always have to start with where the hell are you?_ ” and I bet Daniel heard this line fully. I roll my eyes, thinking that precious Juergen will always stay precious. “Well, I don’t know, but personally I believe you should think abut a new opening line already. It’s time,” I smile underneath my nose. “ _Always so smart Fernando,_ always _. Tell me where are you?_ ” and I shrug my shoulders, as if Juergen was quizzing me here, standing in this room, looking at me. I’m quite glad he isn’t. “I’m at Nicklas. Probably going to sleepover here,” again casually, slowly, normally. “ _Sleepover at Nicklas? We live a street away, why would you sleepover at Nicklas? It makes no sense at all. Come back home._ ” I breath out loudly, tiredly, and I know Juergen well recognizes that breath. “Why? Maybe cause I’ve been locked in that house street away for the past week, and from what I remember even the Guantanamo prisoners have some time off from the cell,” I smile again, realizing that taking things to extreme is definitely one of my strongest qualities. There is a prolonged pause on the other side of the line, and I know it’s a win. “ _You should be happy we still haven’t sent you to a one,_ ” he says calmly, in a giving up kind of tone. “Your blessings are always appreciated. Have a good night. Say hi to mom,” and before I can add grandma in my cheerful greetings he cuts in: “ _Tomorrow we’re going for a bike trip again, and I want to see you home once we get back in the early afternoon. Take care of yourself and please,_ please, _behave._ ” I start nodding my head. “ _Fernando?_ ” he urgently asks. “Yes, I’m nodding,” and as a reply he finally says, “ _bye._ ”

My phone is back on the floor, and I reach for the boxers and a t-shirt, putting both on. I’m sitting now on the verge of the mattress, my legs touching the ground’s old whiteness, and my feet still ugly and deformed. I turn my head to face Daniel, and I see him sitting up, back leaning against the wall, his jeans zipped. “Now that I said I’m going to sleepover, I think I’ll really have to sleepover,” and I know I should ask, whether maybe he doesn’t mind, or maybe that he does, but I don’t ask. I’m not used to asking, seeking permission, waiting for acceptance. I do things in regard to no one’s regard, and I don’t feel comfortable suddenly changing. I barge into people’s life, I realize that, but I also leave sooner than they can actually notice my presence. Although that’s quite questionable, since my presence is always noticed. I happen to make sure it is. 

Now that I’m sitting on the verge, observing this small surrounding from a different perspective, I notice things in this room that I haven’t noticed before. The paintings. These ones are covered, and leaning next to the door. I wonder why there are so many paintings. Maybe he likes to paint? I turn my head slightly, and I give him a quick look. He doesn’t look like someone, who paints. But then, I look again for longer than seconds, and I think that maybe he actually looks like someone, who paints. He’s wearing those brushed, worn-out, slick, but not body-glued jeans, and he has skinny, long legs. Grey colored socks, and white Adidas Stan Smith’s, but they’re so old, it’s not even the fashionable kind of old, fake kind of old, pretentious kind of old. They look like these are the only shoes he’s been wearing for the past five years, and maybe he did. Who cares? Also, he always wears that leather jacket, which is kind of sexy, and maybe a bit too big on him. It has cracks, and it has no zipper. Maybe his bulky brother had it before. Maybe. I like his sweatshirts, though. He has a couple of 80’s fan-band sweatshirts, and my ultimate favorite is the one with Prince. I remember the one with Prince. _The most beautiful girl in the world._ When Juergen is in a good mood, he always plays that song in the mornings, when he drives me to school. I think he’s still angry with the universe powers, that they didn’t make him Mick Jagger. Or Bono. Or, at least, Robert Palmer. But Daniel, whether he paints or he doesn’t paint, reminds me of a certain group of guys I met; either in school or shortly somewhere else. Those cranky, both artistic and narcistic assholes, who think they have every right to hate and despise the world, because it’s a gift that keeps on giving. I always thought they were just a tad too pretentious, too unrealistic, and I was never bothered to look twice their way, but neither was I their type, I suppose. There is only a certain amount of bullshit that I can take, and their worn-out jeans and sad faces couldn’t take mine. Daniel isn’t pretentious or unrealistic, but his worn-out jeans, and his sad face, and his Prince sweatshirt makes me think of all those kiddo’s at my school, who try to be. Not his fault, obviously. 

I stand up and I take few steps towards the small stack of books placed next to the mattress, where I can only suspect Daniel keeps his head, when sleeping. Again, I don’t ask whether I can go through his personal belongings. I sit down, and I take the first book into my hands. There is something written in Danish on the cover, that I don’t understand, because I can’t read Danish. I speak poorly too, so I should just already give up. Next one has that melted painting on the front. I know what it is. “It’s Monet, right?” I show him the book, and he nods his head. “Do you like art?” he shrugs his shoulders in response, face emotionless, eyes scanning me shamelessly. “Cool, I don’t,” I flip couple of pages, closing the book soon. I sit, turning half towards his side, “I mean, I like art, it’s just that I don’t _understand_ art. That’s the difference. I go to museums, cause it’s obligatory at my school, and they have tasty snacks in the bookstore afterwards. So, you see. Not really a fan. Also, I think Mona Lisa is not that big of a deal. I remember staring into the painting, and I mean, is she really smiling? I still don’t think she is. And van Gogh cut his ear off; pretty funky, but sad too. Michelangelo was gay, and heavens’ bless he was. Who would have painted God better if not a gay men? I actually wrote that in my art’s class paper, and I failed…” I suddenly look up from the book cover that I decided to examine once again, when talking about Michelangelo, and I see Daniel smiling. It looks like he’s about to laugh, but I know he won’t. “At least you thought it was funny.”

I put the art’s book down, on top of the other book, and I turn fully to face him. “Can you just tell me what is this place? Not why you keep on coming here, or why you decided to show it to me, but I just want to know what is it.”

He moves towards me, and then he takes the leather jacket from the floor, taking out the notebook and a pen. He flips a page, starting to write. I try not to look, and I focus my stare on his hands, and his freckled cheeks, and his neck’s skin a bit too red for his pale shades, and I smile underneath my nose, because a part of me enjoys this situation. I enjoy this closeness, and I enjoy knowing that I can enjoy it, without being afraid or suspicious. I think I wasn’t appreciative enough, when I had my room locked, and Sergio was in it. Or, when I went over to some guy’s apartment and we had all that freedom, and all that space, and all that quiet. Then again, maybe I was never appreciative enough, because the person I was with did not require any kind of sacrifice. 

_“I discovered it four years ago, but it took me a long time to find it once again. The second time, I left myself some hints, directions. I still haven’t found out, who lived here before, and I never asked anyone. I think it was some kind of hideaway during the war, because all of the paintings are dated back to the 40’s, even though I suppose some come from much earlier years. A person, who they belonged to probably marked it that way. That’s also how I got interested in art. I just wanted to know, who these people were, and where they came from, and why the only thing they left was this. No letter, nothing telling their story. Only the paintings.”_

I look up from the paper, letters echoing inside of my head, as I think about Juergen. I see us together, in the car, and I recall his voice. Now, picture clear it comes, as he told me once that this area here where we live, and where Daniel lives, and where this house stands, those hundred-something kilometers away from Copenhagen served during the II WW as a hideaway territory for many people. He told me about the forrests, and the hillsides, and lakes, and I never really listened, because I thought it’s a useless fairytale. Like those TV commercials that are supposed to trick you into travelling to those boring, and awful places, with photoshopped views and happy smiles. Now, I’m sitting in such place, only no one gave me the photoshopped view before, and no one assured me of a happy smile. I sit here, and I look at one of the covered paintings, and for a split of a second I don’t think about art as Mona Lisa, or Monet, or van Gogh’s sunflowers, or his ear, and Michelangelo’s God. For a brief second I think about art as something that survives, even if we can’t. And I think about art as people, and I think about art as him, sitting next to me, explaining me how his little world works, and how he accustomed it, so it works for me as well. 

My phone rings again, but this time it’s a text message popping up on my screen. I move, grabbing my phone from the panels. It’s Nicklas. **Tell me you’re still alive.** And I smile, typing back quickly. _Yes, and if anyone asks, you need to tell them I’m sleeping at your place._ **Please, don’t tell me why** , comes back again in a second, and I put the phone back. 

“I’m sorry. It’s just that I needed to back my story up, and tell Nicklas I’m sleeping over at his place tonight,” I say, and once I look at him, I see him smiling. He rips off that page, and he writes something. “ _Do you lie a lot?_ ”

I give out a short, sharp laugh, once I see his question, and I move back to sit right by the wall. It’s kind of my most comfortable spot here. “I think _you_ lie a lot,” I respond, lips flexing in a tight, ironic smile. He sits back, but across from me. He straightens his legs, and his Smith’s touch my ugly feet. Once his head lowers, and his hand starts moving over the paper, I say, “you lie in a most non-obvious way. People probably don’t think you lie, but people have a limited spectrum of thinking. You lie when you look at me sometimes, and when you shrug your shoulders, or when you turn your head, or when you pretend you’re shy, or vulnerable, when in fact, you’re not. Maybe you’re vulnerable, we’re all vulnerable, but you’re not shy. Actually, you’re not fucking shy at all,” and I see him smiling in that about-to-laugh way, and I wish, one day, I could hear him laughing. “Thanks for telling me the story,” I say, tone of voice suddenly serious. He smiles in a sweet, delicate way, and I think I haven’t seen him smile like that, ever before.

It’s a sweet, sweet smile.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And? Is it terrible? Do you all hate it?


	15. 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is really long, huh? I guess I just wanted you guys to spend some more time with them before we all part away. Despite it’s more/less ugly form, consider it a Christmas gift coming from the bottom of my heart. 
> 
> I wish everyone beautiful holidays.
> 
> (It’s over 11 thousand words. Don’t kill me.
> 
> ps. I missed you guys. Swear.)

 

 

 

 

It’s warm, and it smells like something I’ve smelled before. It’s warm, and it smells _nice_. It’s quiet, not even a ticking of a clock, not even a stability of an asleep kind of breath. It’s warm, it smells nice, and I’m not alone.

I open my eyes, blinded by a sudden ray of sunshine crossing the room, playing over the mattress. My mouth is pressed against Daniel’s side; his right side. My lips touching his t-shirt material, me smelling the fabric. I’m lying about half a meter away from his head, feeling his hand resting over my arm, my eyes facing his torso. I don’t exactly remember falling asleep like that, pressed tightly onto his side, but now I’m here. And my arm runs over his chest, face burying into his side, his t-shirt still smelling nice. There’s only that old blanket over our bodies, and Daniel has a better part of it for his own use. Underneath there is a bare mattress, and my back hurts. But I hug him even more tightly, I smell him even more intensely. I’m awake in the most non-awake sense of this word, when the occurring surrounding does not get to me. I know there’s a room, that there are walls around us, that the sun is shining, that the summer is out there outside the window. I know he’s here next to me, and I know I’m waking up to the smell, touch, and feel of his body. I know I enjoy it, I know that I fall into it carelessly, without fear or shame. I also know that I don’t want to wake up fully. That I want to lie in this distant state of being, having him next to me for as long as that sun shines today, and probably tomorrow, and even tomorrow after that tomorrow.

He breathes steadily. Slowly, as if he’s murmuring. His chest raises, and then falls. I listen to every exhale and inhale, counting. I take my arm off from his chest, and I roll apart, leaving the blanket entirely to him. Suddenly, he lifts his hand and he runs it over his face, and I think he’s maybe waking up, or that me moving away woke him up, but he rolls onto his side, pulling the blanket over his arms, and he’s still sleeping. I smile. I move to sit against the wall, and I observe him, feeling a bit awkward. I always hated falling asleep next to someone. I rarely stayed after sex, or even wanted to have anyone staying with me. Not that I tried to play so hard to get, so cold, too indifferent to give in. I just didn’t like it. And I’m talking past tense, because suddenly, now, now that I woke up sleeping next to him, I didn’t particularly dislike it. It was actually quite pleasurable. He’s warm, he smells nice, and he’s so big that I can force my cold, ugly feet between his calves and take some of that warm for myself. He’s maybe a bit too lanky for my taste, because I’ve always been with guys who are more muscular, who seem to be physically stronger, but he’s big, and tall, and his arms are wide, and I look at his feet sticking out from underneath the blanket, and I think my previous couch would say that these are the feet of a future Olympic champion. I quickly scan his whole body; most of it hidden underneath the material, but I’m not surprised that he used to swim. Even, that he was good at it. That he had a chance to swim professionally, aim for the gold. Physically, he has all of the needed attributes. Mentally, they wrote him off, as Nicklas once told me. Or maybe Daniel wrote himself off, because no one can really stop you, unless you stop yourself first. 

His mouth opens, and I catch myself cutting a breath in half, because I expect to hear a noise. I expect to hear him murmuring, for real this time, with something vocal leaving his throat, but it is only his lips movement, they just part, and there is nothing else other than that. For a moment, I think about those lips wrapped around my cock. I think about me, moaning and pleading. Thighs spread apart, back arching. I think about his blushed cheeks, my sperm in the corners of his lips. I think about his eyes; that odd emptiness beaming, and I no longer wonder where is it coming from, I learn to accept its presence. I don’t believe in theories claiming that the voids inside of us can be filled, surpassed. That there is someone or something that can make you feel more, by making you feel less hurt. And if you set yourself into believing you can fill someone’s void, that you can make them feel more, hurt less, then you just set yourself for a blatant failure.

But, do you understand now why I hate falling asleep next to someone? No matter if their arms are wide, their T-shirt’s smelling good, their spine long, and their legs slender. I hate it. You wake up next to them, blinded by their warmth, and you start thinking about your voids. Some kind of darkness which seemed less scary, than it did a companionless night before. You wake up in the morning, as I have, and you want to move, but it feels weird, because there is someone’s body pressed next to yours, and it controls your usually unrestrained territory. You share a mattress, bedsheets smelling like your last orgasm, you can almost hear your last-night scream pushed between the fibers of the pillow. You see that body, and it looks different than it did before you fell asleep. The body is real, and you start to notice its realness. It’s no longer distorted by your needs, and your wants. You see it crystal clear, outlined by the morning’s sharpness. You see flaws, scars, marks, things you forced yourself not to see before. Mornings are brutal; exposing your weakest spots. But I’m not thinking about your weakest spots in terms of upper lip much smaller than the lower one. I’m not thinking about your eyebrows, a crack in your nose bone, crooked front teeth, the fact you talk in your sleep, or that you drool over your spread out arm. The mornings expose _your_ weakest spots more than they expose the spots of your partner. What do I do now? That is what I always think about. Do I wait for you to wake up, or I have the permission to wake you up? Maybe I should wake you up, by giving you head. Is oral sex welcoming enough to the reality of a new day? Do I want the sexual continuity? Are you going to wake me up the next day with your lips around my cock? I don’t remember two-nights in a row ever happening. Two-nights yes, but not in a row. So I’m not going to wake you up with the oral sex. That seems like a favor with no return. Too risky. But I want coffee, so can I still wake you up? Do you drink coffee in the mornings? I rarely do, but in the brutal reality of new day’s early hours you not so often have a toothbrush prepared, and there is something that has to take the aftertaste of your cum from my mouth. Even if your tongue has been there quite often in the past sixteen hours, and theoretically saying it should have already taken the aftertaste away, I still feel you. You don’t taste so bad, I have to admit. I could actually get used to your aftertaste. So, are we going to have that coffee? What do I say first? _Good-morning?_ But is this morning even good at all? I opt for _hi._ Hi is very stranger-like, but we are strangers. I let you between my legs, but what do I exactly know about you? I don’t know your mother’s name, I don’t know your phone number, I don’t even know where you live. What do you have for breakfast? Do you shower every morning? Do you wear matching socks? Do you have breakfast before leaving your house? Do you eat healthy? Do you think smoking is harmful? Do you like pot? Have you ever taken drugs? What do you think about unprotected sex? Are you afraid of being HIV positive? Do you want to have kids? Do you think you’ll ever get married? Do you believe in marriage? Would you like to have a dog? A Porsche? Do you even care about brands, and logos, and corporations? Do you believe in God? Do you believe in signs? The infinity of time? Infinity itself? Do you think it is your first life or you’ve lived before? Do you believe we exist in parts of other people? That souls have numbers? That there is another dimension in which we never met?

I stand up, stepping barefoot on the floor. I turn my head, and I see his closed eyes, blanket over his arms. I start dressing up, slowly and quietly, making sure I don’t wake him. Once I’m dressed, shoes in my hand, I walk out of the room, leaving the door open. The wood is cracking underneath, so I step carefully, walking down the stairs. I put the shoes away, looking around. I check the kitchen first, but even though there are some plates and mugs, there is no fridge, no food, no coffee, no tea. Also, there is no electricity, so even if there was coffee, I’m no God to turn it into a miraculous beverage. I sigh loudly, and I walk towards the sofa. A round-table next to it. There are some books left on the chair that I only see now, as I move closer. I sit down, taking these books. Math textbooks. I smile widely. I open the book, and there’s a notebook left inside. Some exercises, homework, his ugly handwriting. There is no scribbling on the sides. No pages marked. It looks like a notebook of someone, who really takes math by heart. I smile widely once again. Daniel is a nerd. He likes art, he gets his homework done, he used to be on a swimming team. Take the fucked-upness away, and you have a perfect material. Ten over ten, full recommendation. I close the books, and I put them onto it’s initial place. I wouldn’t like him without the fucked-upness.

Standing up, I push the chair back to its initial place trying to make it look unsuspicious. I don’t want him to think that I only agreed to come here, so I could spy on him. I don’t even want to spy on him. I just want to wander around this place and trace as much of him as possible. And then remember those traces, and those images, and those small pieces, that he so well hides from the rest of the world. I sit down on the sofa, straightening my legs over the length, and I stare at the ceiling. I have that fuzzy feeling inside of me, thoughts spinning with no sense. I suddenly start to think about the end of summer, then the last year of high-school. The Olympics. Swimming. _Him._ I’ll probably never see him again, once August finishes.

My eyes widen, cracks in the ceiling visible more than they were seconds ago. It hits me only now. I’ll never see him again. I know that never is a very tough, risky word, and spitting it out is claiming an open firefight with either coincidence or fate, or both of them, but really, optimistically, what are the chances?

I take my phone out of the pocket and I start scrolling down my camera roll, getting distracted by hundreds of different photos. I have plenty of useless, textbook shots that I tried studying from. A lot of Sergio’s mirror selfies, which show his perfectly sculpted abs, and more than often a visible, yummy bulge. Damn, he’s hot. I also have some views that I managed to shoot here; sky footage, the trees’ chaos, five am sunrise. One, particularly very happy selfie with my grandma. One pic of Juergen giving me a deadly stare from above the newspaper, right after I said _cheese_. One pic that automatically saved, when my mom sent it to me from the weekend in Copenhagen. Rest is some ancient history. I try checking Facebook as well, but my internet works awfully here, so I read some old texts instead. Delete some long forgotten contacts. It’s twenty past twelve, and I realize I should get going. Juergen wanted me to be home early afternoon, and I highly doubt he’s going to be home once I arrive, but still, a part of me feels quite obliged to come. Or, maybe, a part of me feels increasingly uncomfortable staying here, so I try to force myself into believing that I need to come home.

While I’m texting Nicklas, asking if anything out of plan has happened, I hear the stairs cracking, I recognize the heavy footsteps, and I turn my head to the side, seeing Daniel lurk out of the corner. 

His hair is a mess, and his face bares this after–sleep swollenness. His jeans are unzipped, and the belt is loosely hanging. The sweatshirt is on, the leather jacket in his hand. Stan Smith’s not laced up. He’s wearing matching socks — that we can cross out of the list.

“Hi,” I say, stranger-like.

And he quickly nods his head. 

“I didn’t want to wake you up, so–” I break here, because he sits down on the first step, and he starts lacing up his shoes. I break, because I realize he’s not listening.

Daniel turns his head to the side, staring at me.

“So I came here,” I finish.

It is awkward. I want to leave. I should have left. I fucking should have left.

He gets back to lacing his shoes, but he finishes soon. He stands up, fixing the belt, then he puts on the leather jacket, and he walks slowly towards the kitchen. He opens a cupboard taking out the bottled water. Oh, there. I didn’t check there.

Fucking shoot me, though. What do I do now? We’re past _hi._ What was supposed to come after hi?

“Daniel, listen,” I say suddenly, although I strongly believe that this combination was not on the list. Yet he turns around, leaning against the counter, staring at me. Stop fucking staring at me like that. I’m not good at this. I don’t know how this whole curtesy things work; what comes after what. You’re the lucky one here, you really are. Not one word will leave your throat. “I need to come back home soon. I mean, _now._ And I was thinking… I wasn’t really thinking, but I’m thinking now that, _uhm_ … That first, I have no idea how to get back from here. Second, maybe, _uhm…_ I’ll be home alone. Maybe you’d like to come over? No one’s gonna be there. My parents are out for the biking trip, God knows why, and my grandma has this whole yoga day thing, and… I can make you coffee. Eggs too. If you like eggs, of course. You can take a shower, and we can watch something–”

Fucking.

Shoot.

Me. 

“So, yeah. That’s it. That’s what I’m thinking about now. I mean, been thinking about. No pressure.” 

No pressure? _No pressure?_ I sound like a fucking ball of pressure.

Daniel looks at me for some seconds more, and frankly, it feels like a well-planned torture. His eyes. And then, just like that, he pulls away from the counter, long legs dragging him across the room, and up the stairs. Those heavy footsteps, wood cracking, well-planned torture. I sigh, looking around. He’s giving me time now to gently evacuate, and stop making a fool out of myself. I start nodding my head, I get it.

What did I expect? What did I expect? What did I expect? I knew what I was talking about, when I kept repeating how staying over is just, fucking, useless. And I hate it. Still, I’m even more fucked now. I have no idea how to get back home. Not even one-single of an idea on how to get back home. 

I feel something nudging at my arm. I turn around and I see Daniel standing behind the sofa. In one hand he has my pair of shoes, and in the other my sweatshirt. Oh, I did not think about that. He hands all that to me, and then, once I hold my things, I see his head moving lightly towards the door. Like he’s nodding in that direction. And normally, I recognize his _yes_ and _no_ without thinking twice, but this time it comes a bit harder to me. 

“So are you coming or—?”

And he smiles, and it’s like the spectrum of my vision zooms onto his smile, and that’s the only thing I see. Him smiling. Lips gently curving, teeth showing, those small wrinkles around his mouth now more visible, and it is one of those reaching-the-eyes smiles where his whole face lightens up.

Well, fuck me. Now I care about people smiles.

Correction. _His_ smiles. And actually it is even worse, since it makes a shuddering thought spin through my head that, in fact, I may care about him. 

I put on my shoes, and my sweatshirt, and I stand up, walking towards the door. I quickly turn around, double checking if he’s following. He smiles again, but this time it is one of those almost-laughing smiles, when his lips curve wider, and his teeth show better, and I want to punch him and tell him to stop, but I urge, and I smile too. 

We leave the house in silence, although I constantly keep talking to him in my head and even though he doesn’t reply, I believe he doesn’t even know about the dialogue exchange at all, it feels to me like his vocal presence is _there._

Once we get outside, I quickly turn around, giving the house a very last glance, wondering whether I’ll come back here ever again. I briefly think about the people, who used to live here, hide here, breath here, ultimately hoping that they managed to escape. I have the paintings in my head, the feel of the old mattress against my back, the warmth of a morning ray of sunshine playing over my skin. I had him next to me, back there in the house, and now, guiding the other bike, almost arm to arm with me.

I’m drowning again, and it feels unfamiliar. I’m drowning, but this sensation has nothing to do with lacking oxygen, while pushing through the layers of water. I’m still me, though. Or I like to think so. I haven’t changed. I still have my smile, and my cheekiness, and my words – an ocean of them, actually – I just, _it’s me._ It’s me, but with this greedy, warm feeling inside, and I let it consume me slowly, dutifully.

It’s all intuitional, really, the walk. Or it seems so when observing Daniel’s moves, because when it comes to me, I just blindlessly follow his steps, failing to remember turns, and trees, and small bumps on the road, or anything that would make it easier for me to ever come back. Considering, of course, that I ever want to come back. And more importantly, if I’m ever welcomed to come back. 

Soon, we leave the hordes of trees, and we’re getting on our bikes, and oddly, time seems to be flying exhaustingly faster now, than it did yesterday, when we were on our way to get to the house. What is also quite exhausting is my emotional roller-coster. Yesterday I was furious, misunderstood, and unwilling. I still don’t really know what pushed me to follow his sorry ass all the way down here; half of it would be my ridiculous curiosity, and a definite inability to say no to any kind of stupid idea, but another half of it would be just me genuinely _liking_ spending time with him. I’m very close to reaching cliché, aren’t I? Genuinely liking to spend time with someone. Wow. Did I really just think that? Okay, no, that’s not such a bad thing. There are probably plenty of people that I genuinely like to spend time with. Let me think. Maybe Sergio. Surely Sergio. The only problem is that I never really spent time with him, now that I think about it. I just had sex with him. And he had sex with me, and it was all quite nice, but spending time, as if being next to each other doing things not necessarily sexual, then, well, no. My problem also is that I don’t have time to spend it with someone, and if I do, I either party it away, drink it away, or smoke it away. Everything else is swimming, and swimming, and my ugly, disappointing feet, and coping with realization that, eventually, I might not turn out to be an Olympic gold-medalist.

We share second lasting glances, and smiles. I pretend that I’m not looking, and he pretends he’s not noticing. We speed fast, competing for an inch of a road further, and I press my thighs to the maximum, but my body hits exhaustion sooner that his does. Despite his skinny features, and general lankiness, he’s damn fast. Concentrated. Competitive. I’m also one of those people, who no matter what would it be, I’ll compete for it. There's no such expression, as that’s _just_ a game. That’s just a score. That’s just an outcome. No. It’s never _just_ for me. I either give my all, or there’s nothing left of me. But I believe, I already made that clear.

We enter the village from some unknown to me shortcut, and I realize that if anyone sees us now, together, we’re fucked. Daniel’s fucked, to be honest. If anyone sees us together, and reports it back to his dumb brother, actions will definitely be taken, and I guess there might be no mercy for my already tired self. I wonder what they would do. Break my legs? Arms? Ribs? Both? Get a baseball bat and smash my skull into pieces? Would it be a warning or an ultimate fixture? I’d be the one to blame, I suppose. Not Daniel. Daniel would be taken to the side, brother on brother matters. Some punches, screams, maybe tears. I don’t think anyone in that family would be able to bear the fact he’s gay. They cannot bear the fact that there’s a gay visitor in their village, talk about their son. I wonder if his brother knows. I wonder if he suspects. I wonder if he sniffs around it, gets his hands on it. Someone must know. There is always someone who knows, no matter how well their hide it. They can fool others, usually they fool themselves, but in the back of their heads, _they know._ I don’t think my mother knew immediately. I knew immediately. I always liked boys. But it didn’t seem strange to me at all. It was all natural, that I liked them. I always liked to compete with them, and punch them, and play cars with them, and build lego village’s with them, but I also liked their presence, finding it very soothing. I wanted their closeness. Later, of course, came the sexual wanting, the skin and moaning wanting, but back then it was just their closeness. Girls were always distant in my life. My mother was always distant. When I told her that I’m gay, because I clearly remember telling her, she said she knew, but I really didn’t think she did. I remember looking at her, and thinking that _you don’t know anything._ And she still doesn’t. She just doesn’t know me at all, but that’s not her fault.

When we get off our bikes, I look around in a hurry, because I don’t want him to notice that I’m looking. I don’t want him to think that I’m embarrassed, or ashamed to be seen with him. I just really don’t want the physical punishment to come down on any of us, but thankfully, there is no one around. That’s also one of the things that I’m still getting used to here. There is never anyone around, but still, oddly, everyone knows about other’s shit. Of course, I still see people from time to time. Kids mostly, running freely down the streets, chasing after fun and silliness, making me think back in nostalgia on my own fun and silly childhood. Games and dreams. I never wanted to be a professional swimmer, though. Not even an athlete. I just wanted to have a store with feathers. Pretty fucking gay of me, huh? And I burst out with a quick, and seemingly unnoticeable laugh, but Daniel looks at me, frowning his eyebrows. 

“I was just thinking about my childhood dreams,” I say, as we both lean our bikes against the porch. “I thought I might like to own a store selling feathers,” and he smiles widely, along with me, as we walk up the stairs and across the patio. “I guess the queer in me woke up quite early,” I laugh, taking keys out, opening the door. “Actually, that’s not such a bad idea, when you think about it,” and I see him half-laughing voicelessly, as we enter the house, “but if you’re so smart, then go ahead, and tell me about your childhoods dreams,” and I turn around to take my jacket off, and my shoes, and he does same, but there is something weird going on.

Very weird.

I walk couple of steps forward, not waiting for Daniel to catch up, and I freeze, my lungs suddenly tightened by some kind of invisible rope.

“I told you he was going to be on time, and you didn’t believe me!” my grandma says with satisfaction and joy, throwing her arms up in the air, walking past Juergen, who’s now sitting down by the large, dining table.

I want to die. 

“Juergen insisted on making us all stay in the house, and wait for you, because he obviously didn’t—“ and she stops right there, she stops right fucking there, as she notices Daniel behind my back.

“Because he obviously didn’t believe that I would come back home on time and wanted to prove everyone he was going to be right one, last time. Of course,” I finish for her, voice seeping irony, and flatness. “Good morning, grandma,” I say, this time less ironically, still flatly.

“Good morning, Fernando,” she replies, her voice emotionless with shock and utter disbelieve. “Good morning, _uhm,_ to you too, Daniel,” and the last word oddly rolls off her tongue. It’s still shock, and disbelieve, but something else I can’t really trace down.

I turn my head to face Daniel, fearful he is going to have a murderous expression all over his face, but I’m surprised to see that there is _nothing._ Well, usually there is _nothing_ , but I thought, maybe the current circumstances will force a different outcome. As I’m still facing him, I wordlessly say, “I’m so sorry.”

Naturally, in moments like these, the universe or whatever controls the condition around, doesn’t stop at that. Naturally, it always gets worse. So, now, it is for my mom enthusiastically flying down the stairs, half dressed in her biking gear, looking like she popped magical, happiness pills down her throat at least a thousand times. It’s not even the booze. I seriously suspect she’s on drugs now. “Fernando!” she almost screams, smiling widely, arms opening to squeeze me like I’m back to being five and in kindergarten. “Who’s that?” she whispers with interest to my ear, pulling away and then pulling me aside, eyeing Daniel like she’s the Inspector Gadget.

“I’m Fernando’s mom,” she straightens her arms, grabbing Dan’s hand and shaking it. “So nice to meet you. What’s your name?”

Spit flushes down my throat with all emotions bottled up, and I really want to say something, but I can’t. “That’s Daniel,” my grandma volunteers, looking at me, but no longer with shock and disbelieve, but something rather like irritation. I remember she told me at the very beginning to stay away from Daniel. Boohoo, I didn’t. 

“Come on in! You can get a quick lunch with us, before we all go,” and as enthusiastically she came her, as enthusiastically she leaves, moving inside the kitchen with some kind of wild spirit.

“Is she on drugs?” I ask my grandma, but she just glances at me irritated, and turns around without a word, following my mother’s steps. Maybe with less enthusiasm. 

I turn to Daniel quickly, fully, facing him now with my entire body, and I come closer, his face just centimeters away from mine. “I’m so sorry, Daniel, I really am, I had absolutely no fucking idea that they’re going to be home. They weren’t supposed to be. It’s Juergen. It’s always Juergen. Really, if you want to go, you can go now, and I’ll come up with some kind of excuse, and we can forget about it, and–” and he does it again. His hand lands over my lips, stopping the words from coming out. His eyes are grey, but they don’t darken in a way they did yesterday. They’re empty, as I described them countless times before, but there is something else. He’s warm. Not his eyes. His hand is warm, that’s probably where the sensation comes from. It’s his hand and his sudden closeness. I know it all lasts seconds, and now his hand is down, and my lips are closed, and it’s suddenly so quiet around us, but I’m feeling calm. 

“Boys!” my mom shouts from the kitchen. “Are you coming?” and I turn around without saying anything else, and I start moving. Daniel does too. 

When we enter the dining spot, Juergen is no longer there. He left his newspaper and his iPad on the table, but he’s not there. My grandma is rushing around, setting the desk, and she looks at me urgently, but she’s not asking for help. She’s pissed with me, and I know why. Of course I know why. I was supposed to leave Daniel alone, and I didn’t. I just don’t know what’s the big problem here really. It’s not like I’m openly fucking him, and spreading the news around. Oh, how I wish I was fucking him. Not now, I tell myself. This isn’t a good moment for that. Not now.

“Fernando, wow, being on time probably the first time in what, five years?” his voice is coming from the kitchen, from around the corner, he’s there, helping around, not knowing it’s Daniel here in the room with us, probably expecting Nicklas to be one of the boys. How perfectly would that fit my yesterday’s story. Fuck, that fucking story. Think, I tell myself, think. 

But before I have a chance to do so, Juergen lurks out of the corner, also half dressed in his biking gear, a large bowl of pasta in his hands. For a split of a second, I think he doesn’t recognize Daniel as Daniel, he gives him a nano-second glance, before he turns his eyes on me, but then, it’s like the realization hits him, and he looks back at Daniel, fully focusing his stare on him.

“Morning, Daniel,” he says in Danish, ignoring my stare. A bowl lands pressed to his torso, he wipes his hand against the t-shirt material, and he stretches his arm out to greet him. He doesn’t have an angry expression on his face, as I suspected, nor is he utterly shocked, as my grandma still probably is. He seems … nervous? But I guess it’s just my imagination. Juergen might be furious, spitting rage, calling you names, but he doesn’t loose his shit like that. He’s never nervous.

As he disappears behind the corner, I turn to Daniel, and I say with utmost seriousness, “I’m so sorry for everything awkward and embarrassing that you’ll hear today. Just ignore them,” and he smiles, calmly, and I’m just amazed with his smile, and not necessarily because he looks, well, quite gorgeous when he smiles like that, but it’s this calming nature of his behavior that I haven’t quite discovered before. Or more accurately, never expected him to have it. 

“Fernando can you please get your hands on something?” my mom says, while putting things down on to the table, re-adjusting, and adding, and sparking us all with her abnormal energy. “My son’s very lazy, you know? He never does anything around the kitchen, apart from waiting to have everything prepared for him.”

“Which is absolutely not true,” I quickly oppose, side-glancing onto Daniel, noticing how his lips break into a lopsided grin. He’s grinning now. What an asshole. “Who’s side are you on?” I nudge at his arm, trying to remain serious and irritated, but I start smiling soon enough for him to know it’s all bullshit.

“Take a seat, and I’ll help around,” I tell him, and I turn to join the rest of the family in the kitchen, but once I come close to the counter, I notice Daniel followed me all the way, and before I have a chance to tell him that he really doesn’t have to do it, Juergen breaks between us, picking some packaged olives.

“I’m very happy Fernando that you’re finally hanging out with someone that has manners,” he smiles in an absolutely fake and ugly way towards me, “maybe you’ll learn something,” and then he turns his head to Daniel, and I see, I see fucking well enough that his ugly smile softens, and it actually looks like a genuine smile. “Excuse me,” he says to me, dragging the olives and some other things to the table.

“I can’t believe it,” I mutter in shock, eyeing Juergen’s back. It’s been ten minutes that Daniel’s here, maybe fifteen, and suddenly he’s everyone’s favorite. “You’re such a poser, Daniel,” I roll my eyes, and he smiles even wider, almost breaking into laugh. Soon, my mom gives him the rest of the plates, knives and forks, and sends him off.

“He seems very nice,” she tells me, her hip against the counter, one hand keeping the glass bowl, the other spicing up the salad inside. “But he doesn’t talk much, huh?”

“He doesn’t talk at all,” I response, matter-of-factly, staring at the salad.

“What do you mean?” she asks, spicing up more and more. 

“He doesn’t talk, _at all._ And I think it’s enough.”

“What?”

“For the salad, mom. I think it’s enough of spicing for the salad.”

“Oh, you’re right,” she says, finally looking up. “So, when you said he doesn’t talk at all, what do you… oh, never mind,” she finishes, of course, out of nowhere, because Daniel comes back, willing to help more, and my mom one thing does often best is being socially awkward in order to avoid being socially awkward.

“Do you need anything else?” I ask her, and she nods her head, passing me the bowl, ushering me out of the kitchen. 

I lay down the bowl between the hundred of other things, and I smile at my grandma, who’s already taken her seat, but she doesn’t smile back. My mom is also now sitting down, in front of me, and I tell Daniel to sit next to me, so he’ll face Juergen, since obviously they’re becoming such good friends.

“Juergen, can you please take the salt with you? I completely forgot,” she asks him loudly, and I turn my head to see him nodding. But, before Juergen has the chance to come back, I suddenly move away from the table, and I walk back inside the kitchen.

“Pretend like you’re doing something,” I tell him, and he makes a surprised face, and for a moment I think he’ll laugh it off, but Juergen opens one of the drawers, making it seem like he’s looking for something.

“Juergen, the salt is not there! It’s right next to the sink!” my mom obviously needs to be involved, when she doesn’t have to be, but I just ignore her.

“Can I ask you one thing?” and I know that asking him if I can ask him is a very stupid idea.

“I highly doubt,” he responses, and I roll my eyes, intending to continue.

“I need you to not say anything about me being expelled from school for bullying, which by the way you know it’s not true. Also, for drug abuse, which was one puff of pot and you know that too. And also me not being on the swimming team anymore, and the reason why am I not on the team I kindly ask you to keep between us too.”

He smiles devilishly. “You like him.”

“Is salt really that difficult to find? What are you doing there?” my mom yells, and we both ignore her.

“I don’t like him. I just don’t want you to spread rumors about me.”

“Oh, now is the time you care about your reputation?” 

“Better late than never, no? Isn’t it what they say?”

“Where were you last night?” and he’s not joking now, I recognize that tone. And I also recognize the way he moves closer to me, pressing his hand against the counter verge, leaning forward. 

“At Nicklas, as I told you,” I shrug my shoulders, remaining calm.

“Really? And on the way back, completely randomly, you bumped into Daniel Agger and decided to invite him over?”

I give his little plan a thought or two, and then I nod my head, admittedly. “Mhm.”

“Bullshit, Fernando. Where have you been last night?”

“At Nicklas,” I repeat, forcing the tired arrogance to influence my tone of voice.

“Fine. As you wish. Now, you’re going to take that salt, as your mom asked, and you’ll go over to the table, sit down, start to eat, and I join you a minute later, and the first thing I say will be: Fernando, I absolutely forgot to tell you that the school withdrew the charges against you, and you can come back in September, as if you never slept with your swimming coach in the first place.”

Juergen starts to grin smugly. “You won’t,” I say, furious, but keeping it steady.

“Watch me. Or, easier, tell me where have you been yesterday?”

“Fine, God, fine. I was with Daniel. I spent the night with Daniel. Not the way you probably think how I spent the night with Daniel, but I was with Daniel the whole night, and this morning I told him to come over, because I suspected you, mom, and grandma won’t be here. And you weren’t supposed to be, but of course, you had to check on me, because you never believe me.”

There’s silence, and the only thing we both hear is the voices coming from the dinning room. “I believe you now,” he says calmly, and I have no ironic or angry response to fire back at him, so I stay silent, letting the words resonate in my head. 

“The first time in what, five years?” I finally say, repeating his earlier said line, and he smiles, and this is exactly the same smile he gave to Daniel early on, which kind of makes me smile too.

“I won’t say anything,” he tells me, pulling away from the counter. But before he fully turns, he stops and says, “don’t forget to take the salt, and remember that if you don’t like him as much as I suspect you do like him, you should tell him eventually.” 

I watch him go, and then I hear my mom’s disappointed line stating that the salt really is next to the sink, and why does everything has to be on her and grandma’s hands. Poor Daniel having to listen to all that crap in the meantime. I take the salt and I walk back to the dining room, sitting down, realizing that the real awkwardness and embarrassment will probably start only now. 

At first, everyone is busy passing dishes, and bowls, and water, and juices, asking if things are in need of more salt, pepper or something else, and then Juergen volunteers to bring some cayenne pepper, which I do not recall him ever being a fan of, but suddenly I realize they all are trying to busy themselves, so no pressuring silence will occur. I wonder if Daniel feels it, I wonder if he laughs inside of his head, thinking that it’s not really that big of a deal. I’ve always laughed it off in my head. All Christmas gatherings, and Easter breakfast, me and my gayness as the big, pink Elephant in a precious … well, I think you say a bull in a china shop, right? Whatever, it can be a big, pink Elephant too. So me and my gayness that would be. Us together at family gatherings. My mom never really found it problematic, but that was also because my mom never really cared about anything at all apart from herself, and Juergen, _bingo_. On that people, or basically my close Spanish family, put a lot of pressure on. The thing with Juergen is that he was never disapproving of my homosexuality. He accepted it fully, there was no strangeness or disappointment in it for him. All the beef we had, or continuously have, is based upon my actions, not my self. Not me as a gay boy, but me as a dreadful teenager, who finds it difficult to stop at, really, anything.

“So,” my mom starts, as Juergen sits down next to her. I knew it would be her. I knew it the moment I saw her flying down the stairs. “How long do you and Fernando know each other?” she smiles at the very end of it, and I catch myself staring at her smile, wondering that if she wouldn’t have ears, would it be possible for her smile to encircle her head and go back on front? But really, what the fuck is this question? Are we getting married? 

“No, not at a long time,” I reply, although I believe she expected Daniel to talk. I wonder if she does it on purpose. I just told her ten minutes ago. _He doesn’t talk._  

“How long then?” and she sounds genuinely curious. Now she wants to know. We’ve been here for a month, and she barely talks to me, but now, today, she sits across the table, surprisngly sober and hyper, and tries to keep up the conversation. I plaster a smile over my lips, hoping her motherly skills will help her navigate the awkwardness she’s creating. 

“Not a long time, mom. I told you this a second ago,” I force half of the potato down my throat, still smiling.

“I’m just so happy,” she continues, now staring only at Daniel, “because it is so rare for Fernando to bring friends over, that whenever there is someone new in the house, I can’t help it.”

Maybe I don’t bring friends over, because well, first I don’t really have friends, second she despises everyone I always bring along, third mom, and that goes directly to you now that my eyes drill over your skull, if you wouldn’t be notoriously drunk, or barely at the surface of soberness, I’d like to bring someone over from time to time. Have you ever thought of that?

“Fernando is always busy,” Juergen cuts in, sounding normal. And I bless him for that. I bless him for keeping his cool together, and I never bless Juergen, but I bless him now. “Swimming takes a lot of time.”

“Yeah, finally someone. Thanks for making me look less socially outed,” and he starts to laugh, but my mom doesn’t get it.

“How’s your vacation coming along? Planning anything?” and it’s the first time that I follow my mother’s gaze, and I look at Daniel. Maybe it is just me feeling awkward, and embarrassed. At the end of a day he never seemed ashamed of the fact he doesn’t speak. It would be uncomfortable sometime, tiring, taking time, and effort, but there would never be a blush over his face saying he’s embarrassed of the way he is.

He smiles sheepishly, his eyes for a second dropping to his plate, but then moving up, facing my mother’s stare strongly. He smiles again, now more openly, showing teeth. Finally, he looks at me, and I kind of get it.

“I told you mom,” I say, and she cuts me off. 

“Told me what? You keep on repeating it the whole time that you told me something, but—“

“Yeah, I told you that Daniel doesn’t speak,” and automatically it gets awfully quiet. Everyone stops progressing with their ongoing actions, now looking at me. “And when I said he doesn’t speak, I meant he doesn’t speak at all, no words, not one word. But you were just busy spicing up your salad, so I guess that might have slipped.” 

She turns her head to look at Daniel, expression changing vividly. “I’m so sorry,” she says, and Daniel starts to nod his head, making me wonder if others get him as quickly, as I do. “I’m so sorry. Fernando told me, but I just thought, you know, he says many things,” and Juergen bursts out with a quick chuckle, and I dead-stare him right away, but my mom, just fucking God help me, continues with the circus speech, “that I just thought, you know, this isn’t true. I’m so sorry.” 

And to my utter, deepest surprise, Daniel takes out a small piece of paper from his jeans pocket – mental note to remember that he’s always damn prepared – and he writes something down. We all look at him, as he quickly scribbles, his handwriting a tad nicer than when he writes to me. Not fair, Daniel, not fair. He then passes the paper over the desk, between Juergen and mom’s plates. 

“It’s alright,” my mom reads out loud. “People normally ignore my presence, as they get better informed. Seems like this isn’t the case in your family. Sorry for showing up unannounced. The food is great.”

The food is great. Sorry for showing up unannounced. Really, Daniel? Really?

“So is that how you communicate?” Juergen asks, interrupting my ironic string of thoughts, and Daniel nods his head. “Wow, that’s clever,” he says, staring at the paper in his hands, as it’s some kind of a century treasure. “I might actually use that on my wife. Does it reduce the amount of words produced by the other party?”

My mom gives him the most dreaded look, and I roll my eyes, although a huge smile forces to break through. Daniel is soundlessly chuckling, and my grandma just smiles, but I feel like, whenever I steal a glance, that she doesn’t feel quite comfortable. Not that she has anything personal against Daniel, I know when she’s being personal, it’s just her silent treatment, when in reality she’s rarely ever silent.

Daniel reaches out for the paper, and Juergen hands it to him. He writes something on the other side, not for much long though, and then he gives it back to him, smiling suspiciously. Juergen laughs out loud, and then he says, “if you come up with the solution, please let me know. I’d find it beyond usefull.”

So, before the paper has the chance to land back in Daniel hands, I snitch it away, and I read silently. _I’ve been a long time trying to find something to reduce the amount of words produced by the other party, but haven’t quite found the sufficient solution yet._

“Oh, you think you’re so funny?” I ask Daniel, and he just laughs, and then it is Juergen laughing, and my mom (!), who doesn’t even know what the joke is about. “I think you laughing is kinda out of point, since they talked on quieting you as well. You should be on my side.”

“Not when it comes to the amount of words produced,” and they all burst out, soon almost weeping. I do find it funny, though. I know I’m a tiring asshole, when it comes to talking, especially ugly talking, but it took Daniel just seconds to win them over, at least seemingly, at a first glance, and I can’t be playing irritated for too long.

Someone’s cell starts ringing loudly, and my grandma excuses herself, getting up. She goes over to the living room, searching for her ringing phone, and soon she answers, and there’s the flood of Danish words coming right after the other, and if I concentrate then I get it, but I can’t concentrate. I feel Daniel’s large hand squeezing my knee underneath the table, and I hurriedly glance over the desk, seeing Juergen and mom deep into their biking conversation, just ticking small details off the list. I look at Daniel, because I have no idea where that hand is going to go, and if, at then end, I want it go anywhere at all, but seconds pass away, and his hand is not moving. It just squeezes my knee tightly, reassuringly, and I see him staring into my eyes, no shame around it, no fear of getting too close, too soon, it doesn’t even feel like it. The closeness is so natural, so normal; there are no applicable rules to what is an actually perfect timing. He smiles with a corner of his lips, a small smile that is, and I get back to melting inside. It’s like this abnormal feeling of tight anticipation, but I have no idea what I’d be so impatiently waiting for. His hand is warm, again, the similar sensation. And then, as he takes it off, I finally let out a breath, which I had no idea that I been holding in. I look down on my plate, somehow confused towards the way I feel.

“Is everything alright?” my mom asks, and I look up, surprised.

“Yeah, sure, why?”

“I don’t know,” she says, arms shrugging. “You seem off.” 

I quickly look over at Juergen, who’s now gigling underneath his nose, stuffing his mouth with food, and his words echo down my head, and spine, and get down to everything inside of me. _You like him._ And I perfectly realize now that I do.

“I’m fine,” I say quietly, not in my usual style. The realization still with me. “I’m really fine.”

“You know what I just thought about?” she asks, but it’s her usual question, which concerns no hope of other people participating. She just needs to go on. “You two should go to Copenhagen next weekend. Do you like art, Daniel? Fernando hates art. I used to have a small gallery back in the days, and I had this amazing friend here, in Denmark, that I worked with. Nevertheless, a great place to go. Only an hour and something on the train. Lot’s of things to see. Museums, galleries, cool stores, probably fine parties. I wanted to take Fernando with me when I was going the last week, but obviously, he always needs to oppose. But you boys think about it!” 

I believe my jaw reaches six feet under now. She is on drugs; most certainly, and even though Juergen seems surprised too, there is no usual sort of neglect playing on his face. Every time I come up with an idea that I want to go somewhere, participate in something, get a new thing done, he has neglect written all over every inch of his face. Now, he’s just surprised. That doesn’t matter though. We probably won’t go either way.

“I’m sorry,” my grandma comes back, walking to her previously occupied spot, and sitting down. “Anna called asking if I’m going to show up today, so you’ll have to excuse me soon.”

“Don’t worry, it’s okay,” my mother continues to talk, and I wonder what kind of pills did she pop. A line of cocaine. Two. Where is all of this joy coming from? “We have around thirtyfive kilometers to bike today, so I guess we should get going any time soon too” and she smiles, like people in colorful, toothpaste ad’s do.

I’m too overwhelmed to talk more, so I just finish my food, and I let myself pretend that I’m listening to their last biking trip story. My grandma gives some insightful comments, Juergen laughs some more, my mom nods her head on and off, and me and Daniel are just there. Both waiting for this to finish. It’s not that bad, actually, I seriously expected it to go worse, I thought it’s going to be unbearable, but it’s nice.

Eventually, it takes them ten minutes more to get moving, and excusing, and saying sorry, and gathering plates, but I come forward, and I say that we’re going to clean, that they can keep getting ready. Grandma smiles at Daniel before leaving the table, and he smiles back. My mom winks multiple times, as she walks from the dining room to the living room, searching for her gear accessories. At the end, Juergen comes to shake Daniel’s hand before leaving, and he tells him that he’ll see him soon. I doubt he will, but it was a sweet thing to say, as if there are sweet things ever said by Juergen.

I’m still sitting down by the table, and Daniel is leaning against the counter, when the last person leaves the house, and the similar sound of the lock announces our only presence. I slowly get up, taking my plate with me. Some other plates too, I load it almost all, and then I just walk over to the kitchen, past Daniel, leaving it all inside the sink. When I turn, I see him already by the table gathering the rest of the things. Bowls with some leftovers, glasses with drinks, all that we get cleaned in ten minutes, and then it’s all here. We don’t talk. I don’t say anything. I don’t even look at him, and I believe he doesn’t look at me either. He starts washing the dishes, and I dry the plates and other things which he keeps passing to me. Wordlessly. The tension grows the closer we get to each other, and last minutes we just spend brushing our arms against. It’s calm, very calm, but it’s the right before storm kind of calm. 

I put the last plate inside a tall drawer, and then I turn around, leaving the wet cloth to dry. I lean against the counter with my back, arms crossing over the chest. Now what? Turning my head to the side, I see him washing his hands, and then wiping them against the sweatshirt material. It is only now that he looks up, staring at me. I don’t say anything, and the words that are speeding through my head have no matching sense attached to them, so I just stand like that, with my arms still crossed over, face donning a dull expression. Not that I find him dull, not even for a second.

He takes one, regular step forward, turns, leans against the counter, arms now crossing his chest, as mine are doing same. I side-glance now properly, eyeing him. “You do enjoy getting on my nerves, don’t you?” 

And he smiles underneath his nose; a smile of some kind of superiority and smugness, which I’d gladly rub off of his face. I turn to the side, hip pressing the counter, my chest facing his direction, arms now dropped to the sides. My head tilts, stare glued to his lips, which are now widening, letting a touch of gentleness spark his expression. Fuck his gentleness. 

“You really are nothing that I imagined you to be,” I suddenly say, quickly, with some sort of fierce emotion. This is not anger, not even disappointment, it’s kind of daring, my tone of voice. He looks at me now, vision concentrated, color of skin pale, with an overwhelming attachment of freckles. I feel like mine are different. Uglier. Dipped in the southern sun, whereas his are cold, milk pale background to that crowd of dots. He doesn’t have nice, seductive lips, I think as I look at them now, as they’re folding into an ironic grin; they’re not full, they’re thin. Sharply outlined. Still maybe a bit swollen. The thing is, I could not imagine having them any other, different way. And then briefly, for a second it goes over my head that I could not imagine having _him_ any other, different way. 

I move a step closer, pressing my chest against his arms, which are still crossed over his torso. He’s big, and I need to look up, straighten my back. His height doesn’t work to my advantage, not now and never before. “I clearly remember seeing you for the first time,” I say, “and thinking what a poor, outed, and lonely boy, surrounded by a group of people who do nothing, but openly ignore him. I almost felt bad for you, almost, until you looked up, staring at me with no shame or so little of courtesy, that I thought, how long will you last like that?”

My arms move up, embracing his neck, and I press further against his chest, my hips touching his. I smile shyly, delicately, and I almost close his lips with mine. “So, Dan,” my hot breath against his, “how long will you last like that?” and I smile widely, stealing his superiority and his smugness, making it my trait now.

I feel his arms loosening, dropping to my sides, and then suddenly, but I guess quite slowly, and with affection, his hands move underneath the material of my clothes. One arm tightens around my lower waist, fingers gripping the hip, and the other moves up my torso. The moment when his palm slides over my nipple, I breathe out loudly, chest abruptly rising. He smiles, again, and I shut my eyes to compose myself. I’m not that easy to break, I say it in my head, and he’s not that good anyway, I repeat twice, but then his hand, the one that was on my hip, slides down, and with hostile calmness grabs a handful of my ass, and I moan with pleasure. 

“That’s not fair,” I murmur to his mouth, eyes now open, and vision focused. His hand is no longer underneath the material, but it moves up my chest, and now his fingers are delicately scratching over the neck skin, and for a brief second I think he’s going to choke me, but his fingers go up, and then they clench over my jaw, gripping so hard it feels like he’s going to crush the bone. I feel his other hand releasing, but soon, very soon, his fingers move under the waistband of my pants, and then underneath the boxer material, and he grasps the naked flesh with almost a painful strength. “If you think you can do as you please, then you’re wrong.” 

But his hand is still crushing my jaw, and his fingers are still digging into my ass, and I’m hard, and he surely feels it, taking his damn pride in it. But I finally make some use out of my stretched out arms, encircled around his neck, and I let my fingers run through his hair, pulling back strongly. His head slightly jerks back, and his hand is now letting of the jaw grip, getting back down, falling to my side. “I meant it,” I say, feeling like I regain my composure, and my breath, and my clarity, and I want to bend him over, but he presses me against his body, and I swear, I try to swallow that pity moan, but it gets out either way, and before I get to argue, he kisses me unexpectedly, forcing his way in.

It’s nothing else, but a heat wave of pleasure suddenly washing over, and I feel hot, as it hits my senses all at once. And if yesterday everything happened so gradually, and peacefully, only with a hint of rush, today the anticipation is running over a thin verge, and there’s nothing stopping me. I want _him._ I want him all, and I want him now, and I want him fully, on the go, with no reasonable dozing. It’s like the peak of your high, and you drown uncontrollably without the fear of loosing it, overdosing. 

We kiss breathlessly, and we battle. His hands push, and pinch, and drag along, and dig inside, and I scratch his skin, and I think about how I want to scratch his back, and if I’m not kissing him, then I’m biting him. And if we’re not exchanging spit, then I’m sucking on his neck, and I think about the bruises, and marks, and some kind of inevitable ownership that comes along with it.

I pull away, breathing shortly. He looks at me with little understanding, propping his hands against the counter, keeping balance. I smile, biting on my lower lip, as I step backwards, moving away from him. One step, two steps, three, a smile now larger, provocative. I want to say, _catch me if you can_ , but I don’t say it. I learn to appreciate the silence, broken only by hasty circles of our exhales and inhales. He stares at me, into my eyes, and it feels that if I don’t move soon enough, he’s gonna jump right at me. Turning around, I look back at him briefly, and then I start running forward, and I think it might take him some time to fight through the uncertainty of the situation, but I don’t even make it to the stairs, when I feel his arms violently wrapping around my waist, pulling me closer. I start to laugh, trying to break away, but he’s stronger. “Let me go,” I say in-between uncontrollable outbursts, and soon his grip loosens, and I don’t think twice before escaping, speeding up the stairs, skipping every second step. He catches me before I get to the bathroom, and he turns me around, pinning me against the door. I’m still laughing. 

“So what,” I say, lungs heavy with the lack of oxygen, “you got me,” and before I get to continue, his hands are undoing the button of my pants, and then he pulls the zipper down, and I realize that I’m no longer laughing. The tight anticipation suddenly hits my abdomen, and I look up, staring at his face.

My hand moves to the back, and it presses the handle, letting the bathroom door to open swiftly. I step backwards, staring at him, letting that same smile across my lips. He follows me inside, and he closes the door. “I think it’s better if you lock it,” I add, and Daniel smiles, doing as I said. We stand now a meter away from each other, and there is no close friction, not even being a subtle touch away. I take my sweatshirt off and it drops to the floor. Then my t-shirt, and I see how he observes me. It turns me on. I slowly roll the pants down, and I push them away with my foot. Ultimately go the socks, and I’m standing there, only in boxers. I hesitate whether I should take them off on my own, whether I want him to do it. For a strange second, I think I might be a bit embarrassed, shied away. And then I do it. I slide my fingers behind the waistband of the boxers, and I pull them down, stepping out. He stares at me, at my face, not even an inch further down, and his lips are parted, and I hear his deep exhale. I don’t even have to say that it’s his turn, because he takes his sweatshirt off, and it is only now that I see them, and I realize I have seen them only once. The second time I saw him, by the lake, when he was drying his body with the towel. The tattoos. Every single time after that, he was either in a sweatshirt or had a leather jacket over, and I completely, whole-heartedly forgotten about his tattoos. Even yesterday. That whole time. I was so selfish with having my dick sucked, that I forgot to properly undress him. They’re there. All over his arms, contrasting with the white, regular t-shirt.

I look up, staring at his face. “I completely forgot you have them,” I say, mesmerized, eyeing the length of his arms, the colors, and shapes, questions and wonders arising in my head, and I want to let them all out now, and here, but then he takes his t-shirt off, and I swallow loudly. He doesn’t have precisely sculpted abs, peaking out, and adding a common trace of masculinity to his looks. What he has, instead, are broad, beautifully shaped arms. And collarbones. I want to leave short, tiny kisses over the entire length of his collarbones, and then mark the milky skin with my tongue. I look down his torso, and I notice how the tattoos cover only his arms; forearms, strictly finishing at both lines of his wrists. I assume he’s going to have more in the future. I want to know where he got them. How he got them. What’s the story. Why. And then, as his hands are working the belt, and the rest of pants tiring structure, I stare at the line of hair coming from underneath his boxers till navel, and I have a shudder of pleasure spinning down my spine. I remember that hair line. I remember kissing his lower stomach; I wouldn’t mind doing it again. And again. And again. And then, his pants are off, his socks too, and he’s standing there in his boxers, and he slides them down, and I feel my mouth running dry. He’s tall, and he’s lanky, and he’s pale, and he has freckles on his upper chest and his neck, and he has tattoos, and he has muscled thighs, and he has a bit pointy knees, and a flat stomach, and lower ribs weirdly sticking out, and he has quite a lot of hair, and I genuinely think he’s beautiful. Just like that, as he stands in front of me. And I see his cheeks red, and his breath getting shorter, and I know it probably feels uncomfortable, and to be honest, it feels uncomfortable to me too, a bit at least, but I stare at him, and I want to remember every, single detail about him _forever_. Not really knowing what forever means in my vocabulary, but it has such a definite, resolute sound that I’m willing to bet forever on him.

I slide open the plastic door, and I step inside the shower first. I move to stand by the tiled wall, I turn around to face him, and I expect him to be hesitant, I expect him to be unsure, but he isn’t. He steps right after me, and he immediately moves so close, that I feel as if he’s hovering over me. He is hovering over me, honestly speaking. I feel small, and irrelevant when pushed against such measures, but I also feel turned on, and played with, because my nasty, unstoppable words usually make me the dominant one, and here, he did not open his mouth once to shut me up, yet my back now presses the wall, and my knees are weak, and I breath out loudly, almost willing to ask for one, single second of a touch. Without realizing, I slowly gave out my power, or maybe, without realizing, I never had it in the first place. 

He motions with his hand, sort of for me to come closer, and I do come closer. I take one step forward, and my hips are now touching his hips. I breath out loudly, anticipation running down my veins, blood impatiently boiling – I hate to wait. His right hand embraces my waist, but it does so in a demanding, forcing way, and soon I realize he wants me to turn around, so I willingly do turn around. I feel the tip of his cock nudging at my ass, and I sigh, wondering if this can get any more torturous. Both of his hands are now slowly going down my back, and it doesn’t seem like he’s doing it to bring me pleasure; it’s more of a check-out. Trying out how my skin feels, how my shoulder blades move, how my spine is built. It sends me shivers, like tiny, little needles are being sticked onto the flat surface of my skin.

Odd thing is that he doesn’t come much closer to me. His arms are not encircling my waist, his chest is not tightly pressed against my back, he doesn’t push his cock between my ass cheeks, provoking. What he does instead now, is that he softly kisses my nape. It’s a kiss after kiss; no teeth clenching, no biting sensation, no nails scratching my back. It’s all delicate, sweet, maybe even too tender for my taste. For my knowing. 

I had sex for the first time when I was fifteen years old. I met him online, I lied about my age, and he most probably lied about his too. He was much older, and I didn’t think twice about what I was doing. He picked a fancy hotel, and I stripped for him in a middle of a room in the most awkward, unpleasnt way, coming embarrassingly as he stroked me for the first time. I still remember his large, heavy hands, and the way he breathed over my ear. He’d turn me around, and I’d push my face between the pillows. He’d tell me to relax, and he’d tell me that I need to stop him once it’s too much. Was it too much? Was I too young? I don’t remember. I just remember that I came only after he finished, only after he jerked me off. He asked if I was okay. I don’t remember what I answered. 

I was sixteen and something the second time I had sex again. I thought I knew my game, I was willing, and I was cocky. I’d suck dick on a regular basis, and I’d swallow, and I’d be proud of myself. They’d say I’m pretty, and I wanted to believe them. I was sixteen and something the second time I had sex, and he was my age. Just a different school. It was unbearably quick, like a blink of an eye, and I laughed once he finished, because again I was so cocky. I was so pretty. He was lying on his back, breathing heavy, looking at me irritated. Who do you think you are, he asked, and I shrugged my shoulders in response. I got up, dressed myself, and thought that I’m someone who is surely not going to sleep with you ever again. Still, I didn’t come.

So it was like a roller-coaster of boys, and men, and it was all pleasurable, and different each time, and I’d come as they’d blow me, and jerk me, but I’d never come as they fucked me. Not that so many guys have fucked me, after all. And it’s not that I’ve been traumatized, or feeling harmed. It was pleasure, more or less each time, and I had my good moments, and many times I thought I’m on the verge of coming, but it never happened. You’re never here, Sergio would say. You’re never here when I fuck you. What are you looking for in your head? He’d ask. I don’t remember ever answering. 

Now, now when Daniel is kissing my left shoulder blade, and he embraces me, and I feel his cock pressed roughly, and this absurd amount of affection seeping off his every move, I just want to turn around and tell him to stop. It’s not going to go anywhere. Let’s have it quick, or not have it at all.

I finally open the water run, hoping the sound of drops dripping harshly down will quiet my mind, but it does little to help. The more he’s there, behind me, with his tall posture, and his broad arms, and me feeling small, the less I’m able to oppose. I jerk my head back, and I lean it against his shoulder, lips almost touching his neck. His hand goes down my stomach, and I shut my eyes. And it rests over my lower abdomen, and then, it closes over my cock, and, “stop,” I murmur, and first it goes quietly. “Stop,” I say it louder, and then I repeat it once again, and he stops. I turn around to face him, and I feel the hot water flushing down my back, and it hurts. The temperature is steaming.

“You need to stop touching me like this,” I tell him, and he looks deeply surprised. “You need to stop doing this,” I sound weak, and stupid. I lean against the wall, and I close the water run, and it’s suddenly silent. Hollow. “I like you a lot,” I look into his eyes, and I realize I sound breathless. “It scares me that I like you a lot. It scares me how you touch me, because no one has ever touched me like this before. You make my throat parch. Your hands are always warm. I think you have more freckles on your left cheek, than on your right, but I don’t know because I lost count the other night. I don’t come, when someone fucks me, and I don’t want you to think it’s, because I’ve been fucked too many times. Maybe I’ve been fucked too many times for you. I don’t know. Your eyes are empty, and I like the way you smell, and how you breathe. I wonder how your voice sounds. I hope it sounds like you.”


	16. 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t believe we’re two episodes apart from a big finale. I mean, okay, big finale. It’s not like we’re finishing the last season of House of Cards, but I’ve been writing it for so long, and you guys have been reading it for so long, that I honestly cannot call it any other thing than a big finale. 
> 
> As always, thank you for your time, thank you for excusing my mistakes, thank you for leaving kudos and comments—those who do, and those who don’t. I’m beyond grateful for everyone, who decided to give this story a try. Thank you.

 

 

 

**_The day after_ **

 

 

Family breakfasts are not necessarily my thing.

“I understand, yes, but maybe there is a chance that we can postpone—no, yes, but I’ve been with that patient—mhm, you clearly do not underst—” 

It is nine in the morning. For crying out loud. 

“So I tell Juergen, while you know, we’re fifteen kilometers away from the village—” 

And I roll my eyes, moving my gaze, staring now into the whiteness of my plate. 

“That patient is very important to me, and I’m not resigning. Not here, not in Madrid—”

Seriously? Since when savoire-vivre accepts loudly talking on the phone while we all try to eat?

“And I swear to you, it was a deer, I’m hundred percent sure. In the middle of a summer. A deer. I know, who would have thought—”

A deer. How delightful. We’re all crazy about your deer, mom. We all are, really, keep on going. I take a small sip of coffee, soon putting the mug down. I start to eat, but I realize I’m not hungry at all. I lean back in the chair, and I cross my arms over my chest, and I stare.

Juergen’s been talking on the phone for the past twenty minutes about a variety of things I have no idea what they are, who are they supposed to serve, and why exactly is that conversation such a must that it has to be carried out over breakfast. Again, not that I’m such a big of a traditionalist myself, having my phone next to the plate and casually scrolling through social media news feed. Juergen is bearable, though. His job is important, his interns are being left alone over the summer, he takes care of people lives. I get it. These scrambled eggs and my calm sense of being can wait. But a deer? How important is the deer? Who cares about the deer? Seems like I’m the only one, who doesn’t. 

“Is everything alright?”

I zoom in on my grandma, realizing that I’ve been staring at her for the length of the past rant that’s been going on in my head.

“Sure,” I reply.

“Cause you’ve been looking at me—”

“I know,” I interrupt her, “I was just thinking.”

“He spends a lot of time in his head,” my mom adds, casually taking a large bite of her toast after gracing us with such valuable piece of information. 

“Yes, I do. I spend a lot of time in my head. I’m my own best friend. I’m brilliant.”

She keeps on chewing her toast, staring at me with similar intensity I stare at her, and once grandma opens her mouth to say something, my mom gently puts her hand over grandma’s arm, and says, “please, don’t bother. Just let him do his show.” 

At first, I want to spit venom out of my mouth. _My show?_ Is that really what she said? _My show?_ And what exactly has she been performing yesterday’s afternoon if not a well projected, perfectly executed, and fully immersed-on show? She passed that cracked gene on to me, so forgive the slight bits of annoyance, but the merit of this comment is invalid.

“Excuse me,” I say, imitating politeness like the real lady that I am, and I stand up, gathering my plate, pushing the chair in. I move to the kitchen, leaving leftovers on the counter, and as I walk back, unfortunately having to pass by the large table again, Juergen is just finishing his phone call, catching me right as I set my foot on the first, wooden stair.

“Where are you going? We haven’t finished eating yet,” he says, voice heavy and echoing. Turning slightly, I shrug my shoulders and reply, “well, I have.”

He eyes me head to toe, and I know that if I stand here a second longer I’m gonna end up being given a massive lecture on a collection of things I’m really not in the mood to be lectured on. So, I turn my back and calmly walk up the stairs, turning right behind the corner. 

“What’s up with him?” I hear Juergen’s voice, and tempted by curiosity I stand still, moving to lean with my side against the wall, eavesdropping.

“I don’t know,” my mom replies, and I immediately imagine that response coming together with a helpless shrug. “He’s been acting that way since yesterday’s afternoon.”

“Acting what way?”

“Angry. Disappointed. Picking up on your every word.” 

“And that’s something new?”

I roll my eyes. Thanks.

“Well, I don’t know, Juergen. He’s been angry before, and he’s been disappointed before, and he’s been annoying before, but this is different. I know that.” 

I roll my eyes again. _I know that._ Sorry to break it down to you, but you don’t know anything.

“It’s about the boy,” I hear, my back automatically straightening. Grandma’s voice been missing from the discussion this whole time, and the moment it appears, I easily recognize her calmness and steadiness. Assurance. She knows for sure it’s about _the boy._

“What boy?” my mom asks, genuinely surprised. And you blame me for saying that she doesn’t know anything. 

“The boy that was here yesterday. He’s angry, he’s disappointed, and he’s annoying, but it has nothing to do with you, or with Juergen, or much less with me. It’s about the boy.”

All of a sudden, it’s dead quiet out there, and I’m not daring to poke my head out. I don’t even have to look at the three of them to know their expressions. Mom is being caught mid-way her bite, now re-thinking loudly in her head every word that grandma said. Juergen, on the other hand, he is more or less surprised, but already dismissing. He thinks he knows me oh too well. He thinks it’s just _me_ and the way I always am, which frankly speaking, is partially true. I might be rolling my eyes, and giving out pure sarcasm as an answer, but I am angry, disappointed, and annoying most of the time. Not necessarily with people around me, much more often just with myself, but it’s true.

Not this time, though. Not this time. 

“You should talk to him about it, Juergen,” she says again, spoiling blisfullness of the occurring silence. 

This time it really is about the boy. 

“Talk about what?”

And a little about me too. Me being stupid about the boy.

“About Daniel. About how really it is not in Fernando’s place to spend time with him.”

Wait, what? 

They’re silent again and her words are lost somewhere in my head, resonating, yet making no particular sense. I’m tense, awaiting, and somehow extremely lured to just go down the stairs, take the chair out, sit down, and say, _tell me everything you know._  

“Oh God, mother, not this again,” Juergen says, and it is the first time I hear a word mother rolling off of his tongue like that. Tiny bit bothered, tiny bit sarcastic, tiny bit like _me._

“Do you really think that this isn’t dangerous? That he can wander around with him without people noticing? And that bonfire thing—” 

“That bonfire thing was an accident, and I’m not trying to excuse someone’s beyond reckless and stupid behavior, but it was an accident. Teenagers do stupid things. Believe me, I know, I live with one. And you lived with one, too. Back in the days. So please, do not search for problems when there are none.”

Quiet. It is dead quiet again. Even I catch myself holding a breath inside my chest, because the tension stretches out up until my mouth. A pool of questions arises in my head, but what makes my nerves tickle is a sore fact that I probably won’t find answers to any of them.

“He needs to know that he’s putting both of them at danger—”

“Mom, stop this nonsense talk, I beg of you, really.”

“You can’t dismiss facts—” 

“Facts? What facts are you talking about? These were all rumors. Every, single one of them. And it was ten years ago. More than ten years ago. It has nothing to do with what is going on now.”

“First, stop interrupting me, because it’s rude. Second, the Aggers have no credible alibi—”

“Can you just leave the Aggers alone? I think they have went through enough already, and your brilliant line of reasoning does not need to add up.”

“You know that their story makes no sense, and you know that she probably lied to protect them. You also know that her being gone means the last chance of knowing what really happened that day is gone too. What if her suicide had something to—”

“Oh my God! You really are taking it far, aren’t you? This is beyond anything I’ve heard in years, I promise you. Beyond anything.”

“Stop him before anything bad happens again.”

“Stop _him_?”

“Yes.” 

“Do you want me to stop him?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever tried to stop him?” he pauses for shorter than a second. “Have you? I bet you have. Think about something small you told him not to do. Anything. Did he listen? Did he stop? I’ll answer that for you. He didn’t. He didn’t stop. He never does and probably never will. He just doesn’t stop at anything. But I tried. I tried my best to stop him from a million of things in his life. All of them probably worse than your anything-bad-happening-this-summer. I gave out my best to protect him and it didn’t work. So if you want to stop him, please go and try to stop him yourself. And if you succeed, I promise you I will hand over my soul to the devil so that I’ll know how to stop him.” 

I can’t hear my own thoughts.

“You two need to end this right now,” my mom says, composed and cool. Sure in her words like she rarely is. Most of the time she just _says_ things, blurting them out without thinking once or twice, but now she says it and she means it. And even me, the usual opponent of everything she does, feels brought back to reality by the strength of her tone.

“There are things about this place which you don’t understand,” grandma tells her, noticeably irritated. 

“I know. I’m not trying to act like I get this place, or the people who live here. I don’t, and that is fine. I’m just trying to tell both of you that there is no point in your dispute. Fernando will do what he wants to do, and no amount of talking will, literally, talk him out of things. Whatever he feels right now, and whomever he feels it to, the two of you need to let him feel it. All of it.” 

“True,” Juergen admits after a while, sounding bruised and battered. I bet he even nods his head for a second or two. “I really thought coming here for the whole summer would be a great idea. I wanted him to get a perspective on things, for him to realize the fat amount of consequences coming from his poor decisions. Not gonna lie, I wanted to punish him in a way too. I felt hopeless, but reassured in my choices. And now we’re here, and he’s not training, and I don’t even know whether he’s going to get back to training at all, and this whole other thing blowing up, and I guess we’ve come across a bigger mess than we had initially,” he stops for a moment, there’s a slurp, I assume he takes a sip of something to drink, I hear the mug being put down on the table. “I think we should be coming back home any time soon.”

I can’t breath.

 

 

 

**_Two days later_ **

 

 

“You should take oatmeal instead,” I say, lurking from behind his shoulder, letting a small smile adorn my face. 

Steven quickly turns around, bursting into a quick laugh, as soon as his eyes land on me. “What are you doing here?”

I step forward, taking a box of regular cereal out of his hands, placing it back on the long, almost never-ending shelve. I ignore his question deliberately, looking around for my favorite cereal substitute — oatmeal. There it is. I move slightly up on my toes, and I grab a much smaller package. I turn around and I gracefully slide it into his still open palm. “Here you go,” I say with a sweet smile. “You’ll thank me later.”

“What?” he asks disoriented, his gaze wandering lost between the package and my face.

“Oatmeal is rich in fiber and protein. Stops unhealthy cravings. Fights your bad cholesterol. Protects from heart failure, which not to be offensive of course, but at your age you should really start thinking about heart failure.”

“Of course,” he repeats after me, quite mockingly. “At my age.”

“Well, you know,” I say, half-shrugging my shoulders, half-nodding my head in a non-apologetical way. “You’re not the youngest on my list.”

He laughs dryly. Kind of sexy.

“Are you following me, Fernando? Should I be concerned?” but he doesn’t sound nor look concerned at all. He puts the oatmeal inside the trolley and he pushes it forward, his head jerking to the side, eyes checking if I follow.

Obviously, I do follow.

“I came here to restore my Oreo’s supply. Saw you on my way to the sweets aisle. Couldn’t resist stopping by and saying hi.” 

“Which turned into an oatmeal preach talk and outward age-shaming.” 

“Age-shaming? I would never.” 

“You just did.”

“I lost my pre-Olympic team membership due to a sexually explicit relationship with a man your age, so I’d be making myself a pitiful hypocrite if I were to age-shame you.” 

“Fair enough. 1:0 for you,” he smiles sharply, looking ahead, his posture solid and straightforward, as he pushes the trolley forward. I smile too, a second later, realizing how good it feels being in his presence. I don’t know if I’m in a position to miss him, but a sudden sensation hits me, and I realize I have been missing him. 

“I haven’t seen you in so long,” I say, as his back is turned to me, and he’s picking something from the shelve. “I actually need to talk to you about something.”

I hear him humming in response, more engaged in reading the nutritional label on the package, than listening to me. “I think I might be in love.”

He turns around abruptly, eyes matching mine, the nutritional label no longer of importance. “What do you mean?”

I’m being caught off guard. “Well, what do _you_ mean by asking what do I mean? Isn’t being in love pretty self-explanatory? Do you normally say anything else?”

Steven starts to laugh, and that sudden tension between us already gone. He drops another package into the trolley, pushing it, and I’m there, still standing. I imagine a bunch of question marks circulating above my head, that’s how confused I am. 

“Are you coming, or no? I want Oreo’s too,” his rough voice catches with me, and I run up to him.

“Aren’t you going to say something?” I ask, voice a bit breathless. How about I start working out any time soon?

“Wasn’t it me, who told you that you’re in love?”

I nod my head. “Yes. Okay, that is true, but back then I didn’t believe you.”

“And what made you change your mind?” he picks on reading another nutritional label.

“I don’t—like, I don’t _know._ It just feels, uhm, a certain way.” 

“What way?” Steven is still reading that damn label. 

I look at his absent facial expression and I think. I search in my head for that one word, that one word which would perfectly go along with how I feel. It is there, in the back of my mind, on the tip of my tongue. “Restless,” I suddenly blurt out. “I feel so restless all the time. Bothered. Nervous. I breath convulsively and I never breath convulsively. I trained my breath for years. I used to have the most steady, and measured breath,” I see him looking at me weirdly. “What? It’s a swimmer’s thing. Breathing is as crucial as the strength of your muscles. You actually train to breath properly, but well, I wouldn’t expect you to know. You’re a cereal person.”

He looks at me even more weirdly.

“I’m an oatmeal person, and you’re a cereal person. That’s as—” 

“Does Daniel know?” he interrupts, turning his back to me again, switching products. 

“That I think I’m in love with him?”

“That _you are_ in love with him?” he corrects me, and I make an annoyed face while he’s not looking.

“Couple of days ago I told him I like him.” 

“That is not the same as telling him you’re in love with him.”

“That I might be in love with him. Stop correcting me.” 

“And how did he react?”

I look around the aisle. Is supermarket a place where you decide to discuss over your love life? 

 _Love life._ Really? Wow. That just did not sound like me at all. 

“He was, uhm, he was—he didn’t really say anything,” I let out a small laugh, and I see Steven smiling with the corner of his lips. “I just never know with him. It’s so difficult to tell what’s in his head. I spend time with him, alright, like normal people do. We hang out and I talk, and he doesn’t, and it never feels like we’re really, properly communicating, but somehow I end up being closer to him than I have ever been to anyone else.” 

Do I sound nostalgic? I think I sound nostalgic. I probably sound like one of those segments aired on Hallmark.

“And then,” I continue, before Steven gets to barge in with his corrections, “there is that thing he does. He calms me down. That’s actually what I wanted to say before I went into the breathing rant. I’m bothered and I’m nervous, and then the minute he’s around, or the minute he’s closer to me in a physical way, I just feel so calm. Like there is nothing that could shake me to the very bone. Though, when he pisses me off he really does piss me off. So, yeah, you see. _I don’t know._ ” 

I realize Steven’s been staring at me this whole time, and now he’s shaking his head, and he has that tiny smile around his lips, which in reality you’d never call a smile but it’s one of those Steven things. “What is it?” I ask.

He waves his hand, he smiles even larger, and he pushes the trolley, and we’re finally in the sweets aisle. 

“Come on, tell me!” 

“I age-shamed myself,” he says, now fully smiling. “God, I’m so fucking old.” 

And I burst into a full laughter. “Believe me,” he continues. “All I needed was a couple of minutes with a love-struck teenager to realize that I’m an old rag.” 

“Please, you’re not an old rag.” 

“I am,” he grabs an XXL pack of Oreo’s, throwing it into my arms a second later. “Switching topics, why do you need Oreo’s after all? Aren’t you on some kind of hyper–no-carbs-only-air diet? What happened to your athletic composure?” 

“I don’t know,” I reply, helplessly letting the Hallmark nostalgia to hit my tone. What’s next, huh, am I going to cry in the 0.99 euros per everything homeware aisle?

Steven looks like he’s on the real look out though, having browsed through at least three different shelves of Belgian chocolates. “Don’t you have an Olympic future? Records to break? Better spandex to wear?”

I laugh. “It’s called Speedo’s. Not spandex.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter if it’s Speedo’s or spandex, if you decide to quit now.”

My eyebrows shoot up in something like an ironic flinch. Then again, maybe he’s right.

“I always thought that swimming is such a big part of me,” I suddenly say, picking a small package of these mini Bounty’s, while Steven’s still on to the chocolates. “Like after a while I just thought that swimming is actually me,” I put the Bounty’s back. Enough. I have my Oreo’s. “I guess it happens when you decide early on to pursue something professionally. You just become a part of it and it becomes a part of you. So I should miss it, no?” I look at the Bounty’s package. I should probably get them. What’s the big deal here. “At this point, having been doing it for years now, I should be missing it. I should be thinking why am I not in the pool. Why am I not in the gym? Why am I not working towards better Speedo’s and faster time.” Maybe because I’m fucking busy picking sweets in the sweet aisle? “I don’t miss it. I don’t even want to be near a pool. I don’t care for the records. And competition. And qualifiers. Maybe it wasn’t meant for me in the first place, and I was wrong for all these years.”

I’m taking mini Bounty’s. Oreo’s. How about some Ben & Jerry’s?

“You weren’t.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

“I do know that.”

“You don’t. And also pass me two Snickers, please.”

He passes them on to me. “You’re in transition now, but it will pass,” and till I have a chance to oppose, he says, “you’re also in love, so that makes you blind to see value and potential in anything else.” 

“Should I take ice-cream?” 

“What?”

“One second,” I say, turning away and walking to the ice-cream aisle. It’s small, incoherent in merchandise display, and almost empty. I go back to meet Steven, but he’s not there. I look around, almost as in panic as every other time my mom leaves me saying she’ll just go get one more thing, and then I see him by one of the cash desks.

“Did you get your ice-cream?”

“Nah,” I say, displeased. “They didn’t have what I usually take.”

He starts unloading his trolley. “Fernando, it’s okay,” he says, finally looking up. “Just tell the poor guy already, will you?”

 

 

 

**_Three days later_ **

I have that feeling now, and I guess a lot of young people have that feeling as well, when you come over to your friend’s house, and you want to prevent any kind of adult socializing from happening, yet unfortunately you get trapped between the kitchen and your friend’s room, so you end up being left alone, having to adult socialize with their moms. Or, their dads. Or worse, them together. 

Don’t get me wrong, alright, Nicklas parents are a treat. Always have been. Even to the point where I was 11 and daydreaming about them adopting me, which as we all know didn’t really happen, but still. The dream was there and it was real, because in all honesty they’re just that cool. Having moved from Copenahgen years ago, they represent this kind of odd genre mixing modern openness with a touch of hippie chill. Nicklas dad does freelancing, and his mom writes on Scandinavian design that has to do with minimalism, lamps, and something else that I never really listened to, but nodded my head through it anyway. They’re cool, and they’re nice, and they’re sober. Although Nicklas strongly claims they get stoned one time per week. Every week.

I really like them. So, when I find myself coming over to Nicklas today, and I find myself trapped between the kitchen and his room, I have no other choice than to let the adult socializing happen.

“Are you sure you don’t want anything to drink?” his mom asks for the third time, and my facial muscles are already in immerse pain from how much I’m smiling simply to cover up for saying no. “It might take him a while to get ready.”

“How’s your swimming going?” Nicklas dad breaks in, a small, yet happy expression marks his face.

I shurg my shoulders. “Good,” I say, realizing that one-worded responses are not really of my style and I should come up with something else to add before they flood the conversation with additional questions. “Just taking a small break.”

And even though they’re both occupied with different tasks at the moment, they turn to look at me suspiciously. “Nothing big,” I say eventually, trying to sound reassuring and confident.

“But you’re going to continue training, right? Once you’re back in Madrid?”

“Nicklas keeps repeating you’re going to The Games to win some gold medals. Set new world records. Do all those—”

I loose it there. Terrified, I keep shifting my gaze from one to the other, a rush of anxiety creeping in, my breath again getting quite convulsive, although I’m pretty sure they can’t trace it down. And before any nagging silence occurs, here comes the salvation.

I feel a hard slap on my back, Nicklas kind of welcoming greet. “Jesus, guys, give him a break,” he says, moving in-between his parents, looking for something to eat. “He’s unable to breath. Look at him, mom. All your fault.”

“No, no, no,” I start to oppose, as Nicklas mom looks at me with worry. “I’m really fine. Trust me. Do not listen to him.”

Nicklas is stuffing his mouth with some bread now, laughing his stupid ass off. “Besides, have I ever said he’s going to win gold medals? If anything, he’s probably gonna get one of those goodie bags. Attendance gifts. _Thank you for trying._ A for effort.”

His dad smacks his arm with a rolled newspaper. “Hey! I was just joking,” Nicklas fires back, still laughing.

“Sure, what are you doing with your life, hm? I’d like to know that.” 

Nicklas wiggles his eyebrows. “I’ll get back to you once I know. Now, can we please go?” 

I look at his dad, but he just shakes his head with whatever kind of expression. I shrug my shoulders, and I excuse myself, and I thank them once more, and we leave the house soon after.

“Sorry for them,” he says, once we’re out and walking. “They can get a bit overwhelming at times.” 

“Yeah,” I say, nodding my head. “You haven’t seen my mom yet.” 

“Can’t be any worse.”

“You would be surprised.” 

“So, what is it that you wanted from me?” 

I look at him with little comprehension. “You know,” he moves on. “When you called me yesterday and said you need something from me.” 

“Oh, true. Yeah. About that. Wait, where are we going?” 

“You’ll see. So?” 

I sigh loudly. I know what’s going to come after I finally ask him that favor. “I need Daniel’s phone number.”

“And you come with this to me?”

“Really, I know you have his phone number. Everyone here knows about everything. And you go to school with him. Same grade. You have it hundred percent. Please.” 

“Yeah, I do, but why me? Why didn’t you ask him yourself? And seriously, still on about him?” 

“Just give me the number, okay?”

He searches his jacket pockets silently and he takes out his phone and he enters the contact section and he scrolls through the alphabet to the D part, and there it is. Daniel Agger. He hands me the phone. 

“That’s just so strange,” he tells me. “You’ve been seeing him for such a long time now, and you haven’t gotten around to exchanging phone numbers? What are you leaving it all up to? A fortune wheel?”

“Apparently.”

I give Nicklas his phone back, as I copied the number into my own. 

“He’s just such a weirdo. He really is fucked up.” 

“Come on, don’t say shit like that.” 

“But it’s true, isn’t it? And I have nothing against you and him, believe me, but if his brother finds out. Or anyone else for that matter, seriously, you don’t even know what you’re getting yourself into. Why can’t you just stay away from him?” 

“I can’t.” 

“That’s crap. You can. Didn’t you already get what you wanted in the first place? Have some fun? Stir things around? Be able to survive the summer?”

“I really like him.” 

“You don’t know anything about him. What do you know about him, huh?”

I’m quiet. “Exactly. This is ridiculous. He’s just a toy for your own fun and games, and that’s okay. I mean, it’s not okay, but if you want fun and games then have fun and games, but not with him.”

“I’m not hurting him. What do you think I’m doing?”

“You’re here for the summer. You’re never going to see him again. You risk everything for this stupid, meaningless thing. It’s not even a fling.”

He pauses and we’re both quietly walking. “Come on, Fernando. He can’t even talk to you,” and he doesn’t sound annoyed when he says that. He doesn’t sound mocking or ironic. There’s something like a pinch of concern. “Do you know how ridiculous that is? He can’t even talk to you.”

“He talks to me.” 

“Oh really, how?” 

“Fuck you. I swear.” 

“I wanna know how he talks to you. How?” 

“It doesn’t matter.”

“You have a lot to loose. Just remember that.” 

Yeah, I say in my head. I say to myself. I have him to loose, since I’ve already lost myself. 

“Where the hell are we going anyway?” I ask, cause I can’t stay in my own head any longer than that. 

“This hang-out place. You’re gonna like it.” 

The air feels heavy, and I wonder if Nick is angry. I’m angry. Okay, I’m not angry, but I’m annoyed. It’s everyone coming at me, just from different sides, and angles, and they shove what they think I need to hear, and then they’re gone, and I’m left hanging. Half-eaten by my own thoughts. 

We walk in complete silence and I want to tell Nicklas how wrong I think he is. I want to tell him that a lot has changed in the course of past weeks, and most of it for bad, and most of it has become unknown to me, and I have become unknown to myself, but I don’t say any of that. I remain silent. Maybe not sticking to fun and games was where I made the biggest mistake, but when I try to locate that moment, that moment when it stopped being fun and games, I can barely look back and remember.

“Oh I know where we are,” I say suddenly, realizing that I recognize the trees, and the high grass, and the well-trodden paths. I’ve been here before. I’ve been here a long time ago.

“You do?”

“Yeah, I think I—” and then I stop, because the lake view unfolds in front of my eyes and I’m surprised to see a large amount of people dispersed in different area’s, sitting or lying on blankets, in their own company of friends. It’s loud and I can hear bits of chattering voices, and beer bottles clinging, and girls laughing in the water, and guys playing volleyball, screaming at each other. I had no idea this was the hang-out place, when almost a month ago I saw Daniel here for the second time. 

Some people turn their heads to look at us, as we’re walking between their occupied spots, and a vast majority of them says hi to Nick, and says nothing to me, but some smile, or shyly wave their hands, and I try to smile, and I surely do not wave my hand, but I walk after Nicklas, and soon we find ourselves in front of a small crowd of four people, sitting down on a large, checkered blanket. Sipping beers, smoking cigarettes, and laughing. Two girls and two boys.

“Guys, this is Fernando,” and before I get to add anything else, they all burst into random hi’s and cheerful smiles, and hands shakes, and the vibe that I get is a vibe of carefree, and relaxation, and that vibe puts me at ease. I have never met any of them before, much less knew any of them existed, and I have no idea if and what Nicklas might have said about me, but none of them seem annoyed, disturbed, or angry. What a relief. 

Soon, I find out that girls names are Runa and Ova, and two guys are Matthias and Rasmus. In order to make me feel included, I guess, they start talking in English, although it happens that some of quicker responses come in Danish. They are all loud, and gesticulative, and constantly on the go to prove that the statement of the other is wrong. Nicklas sometimes leans in and quietly explains to me what the conversation is about, and who it may regard, if extra gossip round comes up.

They pass me a beer, and I gladly accept it. Taking small sips, I finally turn my head around to investigate other groups. The majority of faces ring some kind of familiarity, and I try hard to recall a place or time where I might have seen them. Some I remember from the bonfire crowd, some I remember passing by on a street, some guys I worked with, and some girls I’ve seen hanging around the facility on hot, summer days, back when I used to practice there. _Practice._ Just forget about it. 

Then, out of nowhere, or so it feels, I notice Daniel’s brother. He’s standing up, tall and massively built, shirtless, wearing only some truck knee-length pants, holding a bottle of beer in his hand. His laugh is so loud and vibrating, I can almost hear it ringing in my ears. He has tattoos, but they’re nothing like Daniel’s. They’re chaotically placed on his torso and all over his arms. Some are big, some are smaller, but I cannot really tell their exact shapes and features, because we sit too far off, and I’m shortsighted. He’s standing up, confident and proud, laughing and talking to a group of people sitting down in front of him. A bunch of girls, and a bunch of guys. I recognize acutely shaped cheekbones in one of them, and I know its Martin. Matthias. No, his name is Martin. He has those blue, almost transparent like eyes. I can’t see them now, obviously, but their raw beauty lies imprinted in my memory. Martin is sitting down, he’s half turned towards me. Next to Martin is, I believe, Daniel’s sister. She’s lying on her back, arms crossed underneath her head. She has sunglasses on, but I know her gaze is fixed on the bulky brother. She’s long, skinny, and her legs are bare and she’s as pale as Daniel is. But Daniel is not here. I look around, and I look between, and I search for him, but I can’t find him. The sudden feel of excitement and stress leaves my body, once I scan the entire crowd again, reassuring myself in his lack of presence.

Should I text him?

“Fernando!”

Surprised, I turn my head to look at Runa, Ova, Matthias, Rasmus, and Nicklas — respectively.

“What?” I ask, out of the blue. “Sorry. I was in my head.” 

“I asked what’s your plan for the rest of the summer. Are you going to stay here?” it’s Ova, and her voice sounds sweet and tender, although the accent resembles many people I’ve heard here before.

“Uhm,” I start, first taking a large sip, and buying myself time, before I hit the stage of some kind of stiffness. “I doubt. Couple of days ago I overheard my step-dad talking about coming back to Madrid soon, so I’m probably gonna spent August in Spain.” 

“Oh Spain,” Runa says with longing. “I love it there! It’s so much warmer, and happier.” 

“Yeah,” I nod my head with a sheepish smile. “Much warmer,” and they all burst into a range of small laughs, which I somehow try to mimic, but fail. Not one drop of laughter leaves my throat, and I only manage to half-smile, turning my lips into a wry fix. ”What are you planning to do for the next month?” I assume it is polite to ask back. 

And before I can fully concentrate, Ova falls into an expressive monologue, with a lot of hands movement and sharp jokes, and her lips are big, and I start to think that she’s very pretty, and that she has something in her. Something charismatic and charming, and I look at her, but I do not really listen to her, and I try to focus my gaze, but my eyes are dragging, and then I see, with a slight corner of my eye, that Nicklas head jerks to the sides, and Rasmus is no longer looking at Ova, and I flip my head to see what they’re staring at, and all of a sudden, my lungs shrink to a micro size. A set of convulsive breaths leaves my mouth. 

“Guys, really?” Ova asks. “Stop staring.” 

I move my head back, and I look at her, and I channel all of my best efforts not to look back again. 

“That girl is mad,” Runa adds. 

“Yeah,” Ova agrees. “Madly in love with the biggest freak.”

“Come on, Rasmus. Don’t be bothered,” Runa sounds like she tries to help. 

I look back, because I can’t help it. 

It’s Daniel.

And he walks down the trodden path with a girl almost as tall as he is. Her hair is of light brown, and her white dress is gracefully moving as she steps. She’s a bit tanner than Daniel’s sister, but the color of her skin is so delicate, it looks like she’s glowing. She talks a lot, and she laughs in between her words, and her arm is brushing against Daniel’s. Her legs of insane length. 

“I swear,” Ova starts, “if one day they really end up together, I’m gonna be forever wondering what a girl like her sees in a freak like him.” 

I move my head back the second she says _end up together_ , and I stare at her. I feel Nicklas eyes on my face, but I’m not even going to look back in answer. I stare at Ova, and I stare at her lips, and I think of what she just said. _If one day they really end up together._

“Please,” Runa’s voice interrupts the string of my thoughts. “She’s gonna get back to her senses soon, and come running to Rasmus.” 

Rasmus face remains blank, but it isn’t the expression of complete absence. There’s just plenty of hurt and disappointment in it. “Fuck her, really,” Matthias says eventually. 

Nicklas leans in, as he did every other time before, to come with a short rescue explanation. “I just never thought this was important to tell you,” he says discreetly, but doesn’t even have to, because the girls are talking, and Matthias is being loudly opinionative in his discussion with Rasmus. “Her name is Lisel, and she lives a village away. You probably saw her at one of the bonfire parties, because where Daniel is, she makes sure to be there too. Lisel and Dan’s sister are best pals, so I guess it makes it easier for her to be around him. I’m telling you, it’s been going on since elementary school, and she’s clearly not giving up. Could have easily pick any other guy, just look at her, or no, wait, don’t look at her now. But you get the point? That’s why everyone thinks of him as even a bigger freak. He has this beautiful girl crazy about him, and he couldn’t give two shits,” he stops finally, stealing a quick glance to the side, and then looking back at me. His eyes moving all over my face. “Well, now I know why.”

I’m speechless, and not because I believe the nature of this situation expects me to remain speechless. I have no words to say. Not even a splash of an idea towards what should be said. It’s not even that I feel like a big, caricatural fool — the kind of fool always making a grand appearance in cartoons. I feel so, _so_ painfully stupid, and hurt at the same time, and so, _so_ jealous. Like a pang of heat spreading though my body, blazing and burning, and it makes me sick to the stomach, because I have never felt this way before.

“You okay?” I hear Runa’s voice, and I manage to focus my gaze on her, then slowly relocating it on others.

“I’m fine,” I try to look at them, pretending as I don’t even know what’s going on, but I have a strong feeling that this bullshit is not going to take me anywhere near being credible. “Just tired.“

“Let’s smoke,” Nicklas offers immediately, and at first they all look at me, but I just shrug my shoulders incoherently, nodding my head, and I smile. Or try to. 

Runa and Ova are still swallowed by the revelation of Daniel and Lisel showing up together, and Matthias alongside Rasmus and Nicklas are already on to the next topic. Something about drugs and different types of tripping, which I’m wholeheartedly not interested in, and I promise myself I’ll do it just one, and very last time; I’ll take one, quick, meaningless look. Just to better see her face. Or her hair. Or her dress. Or her legs. One time, because there’s no harm in looking, is there?

When I gently turn my head, and I search for Lisel, I see Daniel, and I see his head, turned as gently as mine is. Eyes looking at me, reaching through distance. I keep up with the look, confident and untouched, knowing I’ll win this battle, but the minute his lips break into a small, almost untraceable smile, I cast defeat, and I look back into our crowd. Heavy and long kept breath finally leaves my throat, and I feel plain old anger pouring in, as I inhale. Control your crazy, before it takes the better part of you.

I take out my phone and I type.

 

_Stop staring, you freak._

And I hit the send button, before I get the chance to think. Well done, I tell myself, go ahead and be an ass. I mute my phone, and I slide it inside my pocket. I’m not going to look at him. 

Obviously, a minute later I look at him, and I catch him looking at his phone. So I look away. Nicklas is the only one spotting my quick moves, and he just disapprovingly nods his head. I know, I know, but I’m not staring. I’m investigating. 

“Who’s first?” Nick asks, as he presents this beautifully rolled, nasty sized joint. Ova laughs with pleasure, and leans in to pick the blunt.

My phone vibrates, and I take it out casually, knowing I need to compose my expressions and gestures in order to keep it all low-key.

 

 

 _Exactly how did you get my number?_  

And my fingers get stuck millimeters above the screen, as _I_ get stuck between explaining myself, and explaining the situation, and forcing him to explain himself. Yet, before my coherence comes together to formulate an answer, another message comes in.

 

_Freak._

 

Fuck you, goes over my head. Fuck you hard. 

“Fernando?” it’s Ova again, but this time she’s not asking about vacation, my plans, or Spain, but she’s passing me the joint, and I know I shouldn’t be taking it, because August rolls in soon, and I’m going to have my physical examination for Fuenlabrada, and Juergen sometimes surprises me with those I-want-to-believe-you-don’t-take-drugs tests. But, of course, the second it lands between my fingers, the temptation is too strong and too real, and I have a puff. Doze it with logic, I tell myself. Or just do things with logic. In general. 

I pass the joint to Nick, and I re-enter the text section.

 

 

_Are you having fun?_

I ask him, and again I send the message prior to any thinking processes. I don’t know whether I’m asking about him having fun now, or having fun with Lisel, or having a round of some fun and games, like the ones Nicklas told me about before. But he doesn’t reply for another series of us getting immensely stoned, and I feel like I’m having withdrawal symptoms. Mental relief comes only, when the phone softly beeps inside of my hand, and I stare at the display.

 

 

_I miss you._

 

 

Runa and Ova lie down on the blanket, mostly just giggling, whereas the guys are absorbed by some deep level of conversation, and I’m there, staring at my phone, blinking, and hoping I manage to breath. That I don’t spasm, and that I don’t rush.

 

 

_I miss you a lot._

Comes in after some minutes more, and I don’t know if it’s weed, or if it’s his text, or both, but all of a sudden I feel this wave of warm and bliss overflowing, and I turn my head to look at him, and he’s looking as well. But I know that we can’t be looking at each other. I know that his brother is standing there, that Daniel is encircled by all these people, who really cannot know about any of this. I know. My reckless and my crazy back down to allow the splurge of reality checks to come in. So just after the seconds of some semi-shared rejoincement, I look away, and I type back.

 

 

_How about we leave soon, and we go to the house, and I tell you how I like it, and you do me well?_

I’m supposed to be angry, and I’m supposed to be jealous, right? Instead, I’m asking him to make me come. Where’s the logic?

 

 

_Define doing you well._

 

 

And I breath out so loudly and so heavily, that I’m worried someone from the group might notice. I look around their faces, but they’re all reaching different stages of high and it seems like there’s a low chance of getting caught.

 

 

_Your face between my legs._

_Not precise enough._

_You sucking me off._

_Better. And?_

_Me coming into your mouth._

_Almost._

_When you let me fuck your throat._

_God._

_I know._

What I also know is that this is not the time and this is not the place for all that, no matter how stimulating it feels, and how greedy I am for him. Here, that — these are the last bits of reality I have until my mind gets entirely clouded from a profound level of drug intoxication. 

I lie on my back, I close my eyes, and I breath in calmly. Relax, I tell myself. Relax. As my eyes remain shut, a variety of images flash inside of my skull. Voices that I’ve been bearing with for the past days, people opinions that been nagging me, and been drilling through my normally unrestrained mental barriers. All that inside of my head bottles up, and drags me into a journey I wouldn’t want to ever take part of. As much as I agree on spending a handful of time in my head, I also agree that it is better for my own sake if I don’t. 

Then, my phone pleasantly rings inside of my hand. 

 

_How about we leave soon, and we go to the house, and I show you how I like to do you well?_

 

And I swallow back a massive, dry moan.

 

**_50 minutes later_ **

 

 

 

“Dan, it’s too far off, and it’s uncomfortable, and if we fall and I break a leg, or with my usual luck, I would break two, I’ll kill you, and then I’ll kill myself.” 

Yet, saying all that didn’t make him question what the hell were we even doing. Didn’t make him hesitate. Didn’t stop him, _at all_. He just kept on smiling widely, while I turned my head to the sides, making sure there is no one around. When have our roles reverse?

I tried, I keep telling myself. I really did try to be opposing, and realistic, and showing the kind of reasoning I never show. Now it’s too late, and we’re doing it, and we’re crazy to think this will work out.

Daniel left the place first, and I didn’t even take one look, as he was standing up, and then slowly walking between the groups of teenagers, making his way out. I felt his brother stare on my face, although I could have been entirely mistaken and it was only my twisted imagination. While Dan was leaving, I kept a strong engagement in the group discussion, doing my best to bring out the crowd entertainer, the fool, and the commentator, making the rest roll in laughter. Excitement, adrenaline, and stress were slowly hitting my system, and for the first time in days I started to resemble my old self.

I left the hang-out spot around half an hour later, not to raise any suspicions. I noticed, gladly, that in the meantime a lot of people left as well, and that surely worked in advantage to my sudden departure. Well, not so sudden. I played it well. I got a bit sad, and whining. I threw in some comments about my controlling step-father, and the brutal curfew I need to obey. Ova wanted to walk me home, but I firmly suggested otherwise. To cover up for the evident dismissal, I gave her my phone number, and let a delicious, soft smile to catch her stare.

Then, I stood up, said final bye’s and cheers, and turned around. Last second, I caught Dan’s brother figure, but I was pleased to notice he had some girls arms wrapped around his neck, and his attention was fully put on her. I left unseen, thinking that the fortune wheel is, indeed, sometimes spinning in our favor. 

And that, in short, is how I ended up here, sitting on the top tube of Daniel’s bike, almost hysterically trying to preserve my balance, letting his legs spin fast, us moving forward. Far away from the lake, the crowds, and the parting us distance. 

“Please, don’t kill us,” I say, but chaotic chuckles leave my throat, and I do not sound concerned about our lives, or about our well-being at least. The wind is blowing in my face, the trees are gently moving, the world surrounding somehow slowing down, stopping, and I have a strong flashback to that one afternoon, when I was too sitting on the top tube, legs just slightly above the road, Dan behind my back. It all feels surreal, far-fetched, as if existing in a different time period, and space. I felt different. I was different, than I am now, and maybe it is okay. Maybe there’s nothing wrong in feeling all that I’m feeling. Maybe I’m in transition. Maybe it is all just temporary. Maybe I am, finally, on for the better.

I lean back, secured by the width of his arms, and I laugh. I laugh with no irony, no pretend. I laugh, because I just might be happy. Right in this moment, in this very _now._

He stops when we stopped the other day, the first time I came here. This time though, I try to look for a specific detail, for something that would help me come back to this place whenever I’d want to. Whenever we would need to. As we both hop off the bike, and my head keeps turning in curiosity, not with fear of coming across someone we both may know, I feel his arm folding around my neck, him pulling me closer. I laugh, but suddenly with more tenderness, and calmness. We share this dense, intimate moment, just before our lips close, where we both leap into enormous smiles, and the only thing I see is a puddle of his freckles, the tip of his nose, and then we kiss. My arms wrap around his torso and I cling onto his chest, burying my shorter and a bit smaller body into his. We kiss, but it doesn’t come anywhere near to how we kissed before. There is no first-time exploration, no heated rush, no slips — it feels as though I have been kissing him my whole life already, and as though I have never kissed anyone else apart from him. 

When we both pull away, bike lying on the ground, the world still put on hold, I smile into his lips, and I breath out. Calmly. After the first calm breath, comes the other one, and they fall into an unbothered harmony of inhales and exhales that I haven’t experienced in days. I pull up to stand on my toes, and I press my cheek against his, “I missed you too,” and my hands move to rest on the back of his head, fingers flipping his short hair. “Missed you a lot.”

I do not only sound like a segment aired on Hallmark, but I am becoming Hallmark. Fuck it though, really, I missed him. I missed him so much.

We let go after a while, and he pulls the bike from the ground, and we step off the road, and into the layers of trees. I walk next to him, wordlessly, and I steal some glances, and I smile some more, and I let my arm brush against his, and then I let it brush for longer, and then it is my hand brushing against his hand, and somehow, naturally, his long, slender fingers encircle mine, and I’m so taken aback by how odd it feels to hold his hand, that I don’t even dare to look at him. I do not remember ever holding hands with anyone, apart from my kindergarten date Elena, who later on bit my fingers. Would explain the trauma.

“You do realize that you’re holding my hand?” I ask, because I believe it lies deep within my nature to just ruin every, single, nice moment. 

Immediately, he frees my hand from his, but the so-called freedom doesn’t last long. His arm stretches out, landing around my neck, and he pulls me closer, and I burst into laughter, willingly pressing my side onto his. This is casual, and non-committal and it takes the pressure off, and I like it. 

I also like how he smells, and I realize that I missed this smell. I like how his taller body feels against mine, and I like how, despite all the craze going out there, I feel safe with him. Calm. It is the calm I mentioned already a hundred times. 

We walk in silence, and it’s a warm, beautiful day, and I’m getting hot, and sweaty, and I wonder how he always does it wearing nearly full on black. But soon, we get to the house, leaving the bike against the porch. It’s a bit cooler inside, but still steaming. Daniel gets some water, and then passes me the bottle. 

I drink, thinking what comes next. Did we really come here so he can do me well? Are we finally going to have sex? Isn’t it all a bit too casual? Are we going to just socialize? Will I talk through the whole afternoon, and he’ll just leave written responses? I drink, thinking that feelings make no sense. I drink, thinking that I leave soon, that I have too much to loose, that I’m risking and gambling, playing a game that I don’t know how to play well.

He takes the bottle out of my hands, and he grabs my palm, and he takes me upstairs, and I try to quiet my mind. Stay out of my head. Be present in the very now that just minutes ago managed to make me very happy. Get back onto that track. No variations. 

We enter the room, and it’s hot up here. Boiling. All warmed up after days of no rain, and plain sunshine. He drops the water to the floor, and it makes a loud sound. He comes close to me, but not very close, and he starts to undress me. Slowly. 

“Have I said yes?” I smile, and he smiles too. “I don’t remember saying yes to that. I thought you invited me over to—” and his hand covers my mouth, and I smile even wider. I try to say that this isn’t nice, but he presses his palm harder, and I can’t let a sound out. So I bite his hand, delicately though, and he smiles again. “You can’t shut me up like that anymore.”

And he makes this facial expression that says he’s not really sure about that. “Try me, then.”

At first, he kisses me. He kisses me in a strange manner, that there is still distance between us, space that is supposed to be closed, and minimalized in order to create intimacy. He doesn’t do that. He avoids intimacy, as his mouth closes mine, and he breathes into me, and I assume that’s the closest I’ll get to every hearing him. Then he bites my lower lip. Once, twice, the third time, and the fourth it hurts. When he outlines my mouth with his tongue, I feel his hands working my belt, undoing the zipper. He pulls my jeans lower, but only low enough to get access. He touches me softly over the material of my boxers, and I sigh. I sigh louder, as he keeps on pressing his hand, soon turning it into proper strokes, and I no longer sigh. It comes close to moaning, but he shuts me up. His hand doesn’t fully cover my lips, it somehow smashes them together, so there is no sound coming out, and I can’t breath. it’s so hot in here. Too hot.

Right after, Dan stops. His hand is off of my face, the other off of my bulge. He breaks the contact, and steps aside, moving to sit on the mattress. I turn around, my eyes following. He’s sitting down now, staring at me, and I stare at him. 

“Do you want me to undress in front of you?” but of course, he doesn’t answer. He takes off his shoes, and his sweatshirt, and he moves up, leaning against the wall, observing me. His stare is so intense, and so intrusive I suddenly start feeling embarrassed. As my t-shirt is already on the floor, I pull my jeans down, pushing them away with my feet. I take my shoes off, socks, but not my boxers. 

I stand like that, facing him, with a lazy smile on my lips, and my arms dropped to the sides. I wonder who’s going to give up first, and I’m surprised to see it’s him. He moves forward, feet now on the ground, his hands touching my thighs. The proximity of his face and my cock small enough to drain me out of sanity.

It starts with Daniel’s lips landing just slightly above the waistband of my boxers, softly kissing the warm skin. I rest my palms on his arms, grabbing harder to keep balance. His hands join, beginning to caress my torso. First with patience and care, pressing at my sides, and then my back, his lips still just centimeters above from where I’d like to have them. It’s all slow, and molten, and I breath hard, closing my eyes. I’ve kinda gotten used to the sublime sensation, when it is all precise, and tender, rather than hasty, and boorish. But then, it turns to be a bit irritating, because the skin on my abdomen is wet and redden, and his fingers do nothing, but scratch over my nipples. I urge myself to tell him to do something else, guide him into what I like the most, and how I like it the most, but somehow there is pleasure in being handled with unusual dynamics. 

Suddenly, he stops and my eyes spring open. As any physical contact is broken and paused, he looks at me, and I look at him. ”Do whatever you want to me,” I say, my voice hoarse, and low. He smiles, and it is a seductive, playful smile, that makes him look like nothing he presented of himself before. I stare at his tattoos, arms dark and skin hidden. His paleness covered under a splice of figures, colors, and shapes. I want to lick his skin, and be the one in power, I need to be the one in power, but it all dies quickly, as he pulls my underwear down, and I’m naked.

Daniel’s right hand grabs the base of my cock, and he licks the tip with his tongue, having me growl in response. Loudly and shamelessly, jerking my head back, fingers sliding into his hair, pressing the sculp. He takes me almost fully, and I cry out, pleasure shooting my bloodstream. It’s different this time, because his tongue doesn’t swerve in a mild introduction, he’s not shy, or careful. There’s no precision, no picked tactic. I’m hard, and I fill his throat, and he’s tight, and hot inside, and I mumble something painfully incoherent, something about it being too fast, and me being too close, but he clearly doesn’t understand, as his mouth closes around me, and he doesn’t stop my hips from moving, letting me fuck his throat. But I’m so gentle, and tender in how I move inside of his mouth, that’s it’s almost like making love. Let me make love to your throat, goes in my head, and I grin through the haze of pleasure. God, this is good.

Then, all of a sudden, he pulls away and my heart aches at the absence of his wet, and warm. He bites the inside of my thigh, and it’s such a strong, and rushed bite, that I hiss in pain. He bites me again, the same place, and before I get to push his head away, he sucks the skin so kindly, as if trying to apologize for marking me with an ugly blister. His hands cup my ass, and his nails brutally dig into the flesh, and I moan. I moan louder, as his nails drag from my ass down the back of my thighs, and up again till my mid-spine, leaving long strands of burning lines. “It fucking hurts,” I tell him, voice exasperated. But he does nothing to ease the pain, unless grabbing my ass with crude counts. I gasp for air. 

He pulls at my wrist, and I clumsily fall to sit on his lap, thighs stretched out and hugging his sides. I feel Dan’s cock hard underneath the material of his black jeans, and I move my hips to rub against his bulge, groaning and sighing, as he looks at me with wild eyes. There’s something in him I haven’t seen before, and it reminds me briefly of that note he once left for me. The note in which he wrote that I’m not his to own, that he wants to leave me bruised, that he wants to leave me marked… I push his head away, because he bites my neck skin with such brutality and force, that it long crosses the line for harmful fun. He looks at me, daring and superior, smiling with an awful defiance, and in that sudden moment I want to slap him across his face, but as my hand moves, obviously too slowly, he catches my wrist and twists it. “You’re fucking crazy, I swear, you’re cra—” and he closes my mouth, pushing his tongue inside, clashing against my teeth in something I would barely call a kiss. 

It’s mad. It really is. He scratches my skin until it burns, and he scratches it everywhere. It’s my arms, and my shoulder blades, and my ribs, and my chest, and my neck. He doesn’t stroke my cock, nor allows me to do it myself. When I rub against his hard, he grabs my hips, stopping my moves. I hold on to him, arms wrapped around his neck, but he escapes intimacy, substituting it with a touch so rough, and painful it makes me wonder, whether I’m being punished.

“Does it turn you on,” I say to his half open mouth, but there’s such lack of clarity in his eyes for a second I think he is on drugs. “Does it turn you on, when you can be such a nasty freak?”

And he closes my lips with his large hand, and I’m unable to breath. He presses his palm against my mouth so harshly it’s no longer about shutting me up, no longer about silence and order. I need air. I need air. It’s so hot in here, and I’m sweaty, and I can’t breath, and he starts to stroke me. His left hand moves up and down my cock, with perfect regularity and strength, and my hips join, because I’m so close, so unbelievably close, and I shut my eyes. I try to push his hand away, fill my lungs with minimum of air, but the moment I manage to urge his hand, he presses it against my lips one more time, and I go dizzy and breathless. 

All of a sudden, it stops. It stops so abruptly, that I fall into his chest, panting. My eyes teary, and legs shaking. “Please,” I murmur to his neck, forehead pressed against his arm. “Please, just let me come, please,” and he takes me by my side, lying me down on the mattress. I breath loudly, chaotically, chest falling and raising. Even though exhaustion strikes my body, it is mixed with pleasure and search for physical satisfaction, and I believe that this combination is what fights through the last illusion of sanity I have.

He sits between my legs, moving one up to encircle his waist, and then he leans forward to hover over me, kissing my lips tenderly, but I don’t kiss him back. He flips two of his fingers inside of my mouth, and I suck, eyes matching his. His cheeks are red, and his lips are dry, and his breath is hot, and, ”oh God,” rolls out of my mouth loudly, as the two of his fingers softly push against my entrance. He stops immediately, looking up, but I quickly nod my head, and he slides his index finger inside of me. I moan, back slightly arching, and I pull my thighs apart knowing that it won’t take me long. I’m already painfully slipping on the verge, and _yes, fuck, yes_ , _here,_ I think, as his finger slowly turns and moves, and turns, and moves, and somehow he knows my body better than anyone else before, or, he knows better how to put me on hold, so whatever comes afterwards will hit as hard.

I won’t beg for it, I promise myself. I won’t beg for it, I promise myself again. But after a while he slides the second finger, and I’m both so greedy, and drained that I really couldn’t care less about power display, and ownership. Own me, if you want to. Display your power, if it gets you hard, and wet, and coming. Have me physically, if it is to make up for how little you have me subjectively. Slap my ass, wound my skin, cultivate the act of pleading. Do what you want to do with me, as long as you give me what I need to have.

But it is unlike what’s been served to me before. Now, he’s slow, and patient, and he plays with me, and responds to me. He sucks my nipples, and licks the path down my stomach, and he grabs my cock with his left hand, and he licks the tip, the length, my balls, and the crook of my thigh, and he is so damn fucking good, and sly about it all, that I want to yell his name until there’s no air in my lungs. Until there’s nothing left of me.

“Please, don’t stop now,” I say, moaning in between the words, as his fingers move, and roll, and stretch, and he’s so solid in his action, so calculated, and determined, that despite the strongest restraint, my body fails me, and reacts to him obediently. 

I don’t really scream, once the orgasm comes. I cry out in silence, with my mouth wide open, and my back arched, and my thighs pulled apart, and I tug at the mattress, but there are no sheets to hold on to, so my hands just helplessly scratch, and scratch, until I stop moving.

It’s dark in front of my eyes, heavy, and chaos buzzes in my ears, until I hear him falling next to me, and I open my eyes, staring at the ceiling. I let myself breath out loud for a long time, before I roll on my side, facing him.

It is funny, I think, how we almost always end up in a similar condition of him being fully dressed, and me fully naked. How I spread my thighs for him, and cum in his hands, and his cock is still under the textiles.

He looks at me, right into my eyes, and I dare to look into his. I feel ashamed, I really do, because I let myself be turned into this flash of mess and plead, but then again, I also feel fulfilled, and battled, and as I wished, there’s barely any left of me.

“You know how I always want you?” I ask him, as his eyes are still locked with mine. “I want you to obey, and I want you to say my name. I want to hear you. I want to know how it is like when you ask for something. When you beg for something. When something drives you crazy, and you make sure others know. I want to drive you crazy. You drive me crazy.” 

His hands undo the buttons, and he slides his jeans down, alongside of his boxers. Daniel’s hard, and the tip of his cock is wet with his cum. He gives himself the first stroke, and I notice how he keeps his reaction on hold. I doubt there would be any vocal notes, we did all that before, and he never even sighed loudly, but his face is constrained. I can tell that. “Stop controlling yourself,” I say, gently rather than provoking. “It’s just me.“ 

And his eyes close, and his hand moves quicker, and I want to kiss him in a way that I haven’t yet kissed him today. Or at least since we’ve gotten inside the house.

I move closer to him, finally being able to retrace the intimacy we lost some time before. I hide my face in the crook of his neck, and I kiss his skin, sucking lightly. For a moment I want to push his hand away, and finish it for him, maybe even go down on him, but then I think maybe it is what he wants to do. Maybe it is what I want him to do. “You look so pretty, when you make yourself come,” I say it to his neck, and I breath against his skin, and I kiss his veins, and I feel them pounding, and I don’t look at him, because I think he’s not ready for me to look. 

It’s mostly how he breaths that tells me this is over. That he’s done. It’s his breath, and this sudden, definitive thrust of his body. I move away, seeing how he wipes his hand against the material of his boxers, then pulling them up. He drags also his jeans, and he scoots over to get his sweatshirt, although the room still feels like a boiling pot. I observe him, lying on my back, naked. Maybe too naked for his covered body, but then he gets back, lying next to me, and we remain silent. 

I roll on my stomach, stretching out my arm, and pressing my cheek against it. I look at him, and he turns his head to look at me. “My entire body is burning, and you’re to blame,” I say, and he has this small smile on his lips, which makes me smile too. I want to add that I probably even won’t be able to wear my legskin for the checkup in August, without the rest thinking I’m a psychopath, because my whole body is covered in long, red marks, but I realize this is not the time to talk about August. Or explain checkups, or worse, say why I have to go through additional ones. 

I move up to lie next to him, pressing my side to his side, and I stare at his freckles. “Would you want to go to Copenhagen this weekend?” and he looks at me, eyes serious, his gaze almost asking. “I thought about it today, when we were by the lake, and it bothers me, if I’m somewhere, and you’re there, and I can’t even look at you, or talk to you, or be anywhere close to you. It’s not even the lake, it’s everywhere here. It’s fun, you know, escaping here, and hiding, and making sure no one knows, but I’m so tired of it. Aren’t you tired of it?”

Maybe he’s not. Maybe he’s so used to this scheme, and these rules, and how it’s been all done around here, that actually it might be just me brining extra trouble. But he smiles, at first only a bit, and then he shrugs his shoulders, and I hope it’s the kind of shrug that means _yeah, fuck it, let’s go_ , and finally, he nods his head. Suddenly, I get a hit of joy so intense and vivid, I leap onto him.

“We can even go see your art,” I tell him, and he starts to laugh. Or half laugh, because I guess some would argue I can't call it a laugh, if there’s no sound coming. “But it’s going to be only one museum, and I get to blow you in the restrooms.”

He laughs even more.

Fine, half laughs. 

Laughs. It’s just Daniel’s kind of a laugh.

 

 

 

**_Late evening, the same day_ **

 

 

 

Often when I construct my plans for the future, near future, or just the day after, I realize that the only execution problem will probably lie upon not really the execution though. Mostly, it just lies upon Juergen. 

I come home that evening, not that very late according to my step-father’s intense work schedule, and I see him sitting by the dinning table. There’s no one keeping him company except for a bottle of beer, a massive amount of notes, sheets, his laptop and iPad. Normally, that’s a barrier unable to pull through.

“Hi,” I say casually, as I walk by the table, and get to the kitchen. 

“Hi,” he says back, and I know he lowers his glasses, and looks at me suspiciously. “Where have you been?” he asks, but I sense the lack of usual irritation. He actually sounds quite normal. Tired, but tired accounts for his normal. 

“Uhm, I went to see Nicklas earlier, and then he took me to this hang-out place by the lake, and then, yeah, I’ve been with Daniel,” I say, full-on and unexpected honesty.

I close the fridge and I drink the orange juice from the bottle.

“Please,” he says. “I drink that orange juice as well.”

And I laugh, turning around to open a cupboard, take a glass, and pour myself one. “You want some?” 

“Thanks,” he replies, raising the bottle of beer, and then taking a sip, as I’m sipping my juice. “The Fuenlabrada coach confirmed the checkup date.”

“And?”

“The beginning of August.“

“So we should leave soon, no?”

“Yes, we should” he says, turning his head to look at the calendar hanging on the wall.

“Juergen,” I start, avoiding to sound hesitant, or arrogant. Land somewhere in between, I tell myself. Be nice. “I thought about it, and I wanna go to Copenhagen with Daniel. You know, like that one time, when mom proposed the idea.”

His head slowly goes back to its initial place, and he stares at me. “It doesn’t even have to be the entire weekend. Doesn’t even have to be the night, if you know, you don’t want us to, well, spend the night there. The train is super fast, we would leave in the morning, and come back in the evening, or—” 

“Alright,” he interrupts me, and I look at him with more than obvious disbelieve.

“Alright as if alright? As if I can go?”

“I don’t know any other alright,” he says, sounding serious, and no bullshit-like, but I see a shadow of a smile crossing his face. 

“Are you sure?” 

“I am. Go.”

And I stare at him a little more, and then I stare to the sides, and then at the calendar, and then back at him, and back to the sides, and I’m trying to ease out the feeling of shock, so I don’t look like a maniac. I finish drinking my juice, still stealing some doubtful glances at Juergen, and then I move to the counter, putting the empty glass inside the sink. 

“Do you know what you’re doing?” he suddenly asks me, and I look at him, surprised. Although there is no notion of anger in his tone, I sense some kind of pressing vibe. I also sense that this question has little to do with what I’m doing now, with my swimming future, with August, with really, anything that mattered to me before, that I knew Juergen could ever ask about. I know that now he’s asking about Daniel. 

“No,” I tell him, again with an unexpected amount of honesty. But that really is the truth. I have no idea what I’m doing. “It just feels right, you know. For the first time in years something finally feels right.” 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @FlirtyFroggy, not gonna lie, you passed the supermarket vibe on to me. Big thanks.
> 
> Also, major thank you goes to @forsitvenire whose personalized soundtrack for TP been a mental pusher for this episode. BTW, if anyone’s interested — I understand musical preferences and different takes on what fits and what doesn’t YET — you can find the link below. If by any chance you get shamelessly addicted to the playlist, well, don’t blame me. And consider yourself warned. 
> 
> OST by @forsitvenire: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RYr96YYEaZY&list=PLQQzP4eV9xzERyAOeLsoIoi5ozdikjzKj
> 
> Last time, thanks for reading. ♡ (Let me know what you thinkkkkk.)


	17. 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, surprise. 
> 
> Just when you all were breathing out in a massive relief that I'm (and this story) is gone, here comes an update LOL. In all honesty though, for those of you that kept on waiting, I'm very, very sorry. I know it's been a while, and there is no appropriate excuse, still, I feel shitty af and I hope this chapter makes up for some of the dreadful delay. 
> 
> (Oh shit. Almost forgot. Don't wanna spill the beans, but once in the chapter you guys come to the point with those two songs, I would really recommend finding them on YT and pressing play. I guess it's gonna spark the vibe. But of course, that's up to personal preference.)
> 
> Love you all. Comments appreciated beyond measure. ♡
> 
> PS. Since it's been a while; this chapter was supposed to capture the one-day trip to Cph. It does, actually.

 

 

 

 

I hit the home button of my phone approximately every fifteen seconds in an irrational fear that I’m running late. According to my norm though, such behaviour shouldn’t be classified as irrational simply because I’m always running late. This time, however, against all the given odds I’m not.

I’m on time. 

I ran into the tiny hall of departures about twenty minutes ago, only to find the large electronic display marking the train’s leave for Copenhagen at 8.15am. I gave the board three reassuring glances, and as I kept murmuring the platform’s number underneath my nose (which really turned out to be unnecessary, because in all seriousness this isn’t the King Cross) I fled up and down a variety of stairs to reach my awaited destination.

The train was already there, door open, and I hoped on without much of thinking. I wasn’t on time. I was _before_ time (given such expression even exists), and if there’s anything irrational in my behaviour then that surely is.

We (that being me and Daniel, but now in my head we’re officially an annoying _we_ ) got tickets the day before for the unnumbered, open carriage. So, when entering the seating section, I picked the first set next to the window, and slumped against the seat, breathing out loudly.

As you can see, such irrational behaviour of showing up too early, and not too late, caused a cycle of more irrational behaviours to span out. That is why I’m now here, hitting the home button of my phone approximately every fifteen seconds, wondering if it is just this moment, or fifteen seconds are always taking this long to pass. Not to talk about minutes, hours, then days and months. 

We’re supposed to come back tonight’s evening, with the last train leaving Copenhagen close to 8pm. I tried to negotiate a night-in, but instead ended up promising Juergen I’ll come back home. Oddly, I also promised this deal to myself, realizing I’m not only a part of an annoying, Hallmark-like _we_ , but I’m also a part of a new _me_ that tries to be responsible, occasionally smiling, being on time, and remembering to pick up the phone, informing third parties (Juergen) about my plans. Loosing the kind of me I was accustomed to, and most of all familiar with, seems to make everyone around me much happier (not that it surprises me). Even more oddly, it makes me a bit happier.

Putting my phone on the table in front, I look outside the window a second later, staring at the empty platform. There’s no one else in the carriage, but that only makes me feel better, probably safer. No pair of suspicious eyes, no one’s heated whispers. No potential danger. Although, the lack of human presence seems quite understandable, taking into consideration the early weekend hour and it being the departure station. Probably more and more people will join the closer we get to Copenhagen.

Daniel “told” me yesterday that him leaving the house just for a whole day without giving any explanation won’t cause him any trouble, and that when he leaves the house for more than a whole day it does not cause him any trouble either. I didn’t ask why, and I ignored the urge to do so. He also explained to me, that given his house location at the far end of the village, it is actually easier for him to join me a stop later. I didn’t oppose.

Now, quick minutes before the train’s take off I wonder whether I should text him. Whether I should ask and confirm. Tell him that I’m here and that I made it on time and that there’s no one in the carriage and… No. I don’t text him. I grab my phone initially, but then I slide it into my jacket pocket, giving up on the idea. If he shows up, he shows up. If he doesn’t, then well, I’ll have a day off in Copenhagen by myself. 

Before a gentle yank of the train, there is a sudden mumble of Danish coming out of the speakers, and then off we go in a calmly turbulent movement. Frankly speaking, the last time I recall taking a train to get somewhere was probably during a field trip in the elementary school. I lead a very comfortable life back in Madrid, where as little as I’m required to do is to mind my own business, yet even that lately seems to be exceeding my capabilities.

The view outside mingles quickly in front of my eyes, unsure rays of sunshine pushing through the clouds. But it isn’t long after, that the train stops again, and I feel my chest falling abruptly. I look at the platform behind the window, but it’s empty. There’s no one out there; no sign of a single, human being, no sign of Daniel, but I’m not freaking out. Not yet, at least. I don’t even look around that much at first, only as minutes go on, I start to get an uneasy feeling, thinking it would really be quite lame if I turned out to be stood up. As time passes and the platform still remains empty, I offer myself a lazy grin, shaking my head in mere disbelief. I’m seriously getting stood up. _Seriously_ getting stood up _._ He could have at least texted me. No, I’ll text him. _I’ll tell him._

Before the door closes, there is a loud and irritating beep coming out repetitively, and then there is the familiar blur of Danish that keeps getting more and more recognizable to my ears. No sign of Daniel, _still_. The doors are closing now and the loud and irritating beep becomes even more repetitive.

And then I see him, stumbling into the carriage, arm stretched out and leaning against the entrance. Daniel gasps loud enough to be heard over the train’s noise.

Our eyes match and then I see his lips turning into a large, cheerful smile. Finally, he steps in my direction, slumping against the seat, right in front of me. His black backpack lands on the seat next to him, and I start shaking my head again, this time not really in disbelief though.

I am so stupid.

I am so stupid about him that the vast majority of my previously maintained confidence succumbs to the fear of getting stood up. Not to mention the feeling of jealousy that kept me plenty of company in the past days, as I have been thinking about Lisel twice as much as I have been thinking about really anything else.

 _I was running all the way from home,_ says the ugly handwriting on a blank piece of paper, that’s been put on the desk in front of me. I let out a gentle smirk. He was running all the way from home _to me._ I smile again, a bit wider this time. Well, not really _to me_ , more accurately to make it on time, but still, that action was taken in order to spend time _with me._

“Fine,” I say casually, slowly pushing the note in his direction. Playing it cool was always one of the strongest cards in my personalized deck, but I have a feeling they can’t be played that cool anymore. 

Daniel’s head lowers, hand scribbling something chaotically. He pushes the paper back to me. _Are you blushing?_ And when I look up, I see him grinning.

“I’m not,” I quickly oppose, frowning, and that only makes the grin on his face grow bigger. “I barely ever blush,” I try to remain serious, but it seems like every other of my explanatory words make it more fun for him. “Oh, fuck you,” I say eventually, realizing my voice carries no impression of anger. I cross my arms over my chest, trying to look away, but then I notice how he brings his elbows on to the table, and he leans in, motioning his index finger in a rather encouraging manner.

I move closer, leaning in as well. “What do you want?” I ask, half-irritated, half on the verge of bursting out in laughter. And then, to my deepest surprise, his large hand rests on my cheek, and he closes my lips in a gentle kiss. It takes seconds for me to give in to the warmth of his mouth, and the disarming moves of his tongue; slow, careful, and… No.

“Wait,” I mumble into Daniel’s mouth, pulling apart, heavily breathing. “This isn’t the right place,” I tell him, and he looks around, clearly coming across the absence of other people. Dan shrugs his shoulders, and leans close enough to pull me into another kiss. The amount of sheer confidence in his moves lures me in, and I wrap my arms around his neck, hands crawling into his hair, my body pushing forward, helplessly seeking the resistance of his. That damn desk in between, I think, as I want to cling onto him, and I can’t.

I part from Daniel soon after, immediately moving far enough for him not to reach me again. “That’s it,” I say, breathing more heavily than minutes before. He falls into the backrest of his chair as well, grinning. “Since you have clearly lost your mind, I need to keep mine.”

He writes something on the piece of paper we’ve exchanged before. _I was the reasonable one long enough, until your persistence made me loose my reason. Roles reverse._

My lips curve into a voracious smile. “You think you were the reasonable one?” I ask, voice reaching my typical tone of provocation. “I wasn’t the one, who left me sex notes in public. I wasn’t the one, who asked me to dirty talk over texts…”

The piece of paper lands at the verge of the desk once again. _A group of people was looking for us, and you sunk down to your knees to suck me off._

“I don’t remember you complaining,” I say, a smile of smugness adorning my face.

Immediately though, he lowers his gaze, biting a bit of his lower lip. There isn’t that much of red showing up on his pale cheeks, but I’m aware enough of his expressions to know, when he feels uneasy. Or, when it is me making him feel uneasy. 

I lean in again, forgetting about the self-promised rule of keeping a safe distance. “You know there’s nothing wrong in enjoying a blow job, right? Or for that matter, enjoying yourself sexually?” I don’t want to sound like I’m preaching, like I’m teaching, like I’m telling him how to enjoy himself.

 _I know_ , he writes quickly, without much of looking at me. It seems like a two-worded reply given out in hope that I understand he wants me to shut up. Honestly, I well realize this is the moment to keep quiet, and honestly again, I hate sex preaching. Are you not having orgasms? You’re doing it wrong. Are you having orgasms? You’re doing it wrong. Are you not having sex? You’re doing it wrong. Are you having sex? You’re doing it wrong. Are you sucking plenty of cock? You’re doing it wrong. Are you not sucking plenty of cock? You’re doing it wrong again. Some sure time of sexual practice made me realize that as long as there is mutual consent, there is no wrong. And the only reason I feel like I might be entitled to say something is because I’m stupid enough to care about him.

I motion with my index finger, exactly the same way as he did minutes ago, and he leans in with some hesitation. I omit his lips (with difficulty) and I press my mouth against his ear. “So, next time I’m giving you head feel free to come as you please.” I linger a moment over his ear, breathing out, gently kissing his earlobe, then moving away. He’s smiling, eyes looking into mine.

I sit back, and he does so as well. We look at each other for a while, and then we both break the contact, looking away. He stares outside the window, and I’m looking at the empty set of four seats an aisle away from us. I gaze into the emptiness, thoughts beating away to the sound of the train moving. The silence seems entrancing. Then, I look back, and I see him already looking at me. I smile, with a corner of my lips, slowly, naturally, the way I barely ever smile. And then I stretch out my hand, palm opening, and I don’t necessarily expect his hand to grab mine, for his fingers to entwine with mine, to create a form. I look at his pale skin, and I see how his fingers move along the inside of my hand. It’s a pleasant feeling, tingling, but not overwhelming. I smile again, larger and larger, until I notice a scar on his hand that I have never noticed before. It stretches from his wrist along to the bottom of his fifth finger. It’s a slender, gracious scar; straight, almost invisible.

“What happened to you?” I ask, looking at his hand, sounding more curious, than worried. He leaves my hand to write a quite lengthy reply, after a while finally moving the paper next to my hand.

_I was six and playing Apaches with Tommas. He got to invade my tent, and I lost. I called him a cheater and he called me a liar. I called him a cheater and he called me a liar. And that went on for about ten minutes, until he turned around and started walking away, shouting into the air, still calling me a liar, and I remember getting so angry that I ran after him, and I tried jumping onto his back, and we’ve gotten into a fight, and we were down to the ground, and there was a bunch of small, but sharp stones next to me, and it was just about how my hand brushed unfortunately against one of the edges. Though, I still fought him through it. All for my invaded tent. Mom almost killed the both of us afterwards._

I feel myself grinning through the entire length of the story, because really, Daniel being six and playing Apaches, and getting angry because his older brother invaded his tent, and then fighting that same, older brother, and then fighting him through his bleeding hand, because, well, _all for my invaded tent._ I burst out with a tiny bit of laughter in the end, although the second I see the word _mom_ something inside of me tightens for longer than just seconds.

“Brilliant story,” I tell him, pushing away bits of tiring curiosity that expects me to ask him about his mother, that expects me to ask him about _everything._ Instead, I turn to my side and I pull up my shirt a bit. “See that scar behind my ribs?” his eyes follow. “I was twelve and a sore looser. I lost my first, proper swimming competition in the elementary school to this kid from a grade higher. Imagine I was already in tears and lips trembling the minute I realized he swam faster. Then, we were standing at the fake podium, and I was occupying my 2nd spot, and I knew my mom was somewhere in the audience just staring at her nails. The boy got his medal, his diploma; his parents were out there waving like crazy. In the meantime, my mom was still probably looking at her nails. So, I’m being given my diploma, right, and my medal, and a pity shake from my coach, and then comes the celebration of the irrelevant guy winning third place. My lips are still trembling, I’m twelve, and I’m about to cry. Then, the winner boy turns to me and wants to shake my hand, but I stand still and I refuse to shake his hand, looking straight in front of me. There’s an awkward moment, I feel like half of the small tribunes go silence. I hold my head high, and I try to think of the most offensive thing you can say as a twelve year old. Nothing comes to my head. So, instead, I try to be cool, and brush him off with offensive silence, and as everyone is looking at me, I take a step forward, wanting to leave and I trip and I fall and I hit my side against the podium. Half of the tribunes are still silent, half are laughing maniacally.”

Dan’s hand is covering his mouth, and he’s laughing, trying not to be so open and up front about it, but clearly failing. “I know,” I say, not even trying to pretend otherwise. “I was such a fucking looser, Daniel, you can’t imagine.”

And when he’s still laughing, hand over his mouth, I say, “okay. Now stop,” but I see that he’s getting nowhere close to stopping. “You don’t even know how emotionally bruised I was after all,” and I realize I don’t sound serious enough for him to believe the slightest of what I’m saying, but that doesn’t stop him from chuckling, and at this point I’m just shaking my head. “Screw you.” 

As he moves forward to quickly write something, I notice he’s becoming more and more composed, but his cheeks are a shade of red, and his lips are quivering. _You’re still such a looser._ I gaze up, staring at him with utmost seriousness, and when he bursts into another soundless spasm, I kick his leg underneath the table. I kick it twice, and I want to kick it the third time, but he springs across the table and grabs my arm. I start to laugh, when his fingers dig between my ribs, squeezing my sides.

“Stop, stop, please, stop,” I beg, chaotically breathing out, wiggling helplessly under the strong grip of his hands. I fucking hate tickling. “I promise–” I let out incoherently, “I’ll kill you if you continue. I promise you that.”

And then, before I get to go on with my bullshit threats, he shuts me with a kiss that has so little of sexual advance, but so much of affection and joy, that I can’t help, but grin into his lips, half laughing. The tight embrace of his hands looses over my sides, and I calm down, giving into the kiss, our tongues entangled and suddenly frantic. He pushes himself at me, but the desk is still in between and there is only as far as he can go, and then, that very second when I forget exactly where we are and why shouldn’t we be doing what we’re doing, the train stops unexpectedly, and we both fall back into our seats.

A sign from the gods, I think, exhaling loudly, still smiling. It doesn’t take long, before the door to the carriage opens and there is an influx of people. I scan their faces, searching for some clear signs of familiarity, someone that we both may know, but wouldn’t like to meet here. As people go by, very little of them pay any attention to us. I sigh quietly, feeling relieved. There is one older lady that sits across, in the other set of seats, whereas the rest is far behind us, unnoticeable to my eyes.

I look at her, observing how she puts her bag on the table, searching for something that turns out to be a book and glasses. She takes out a bottle of water too, and adjusts herself in the seat. Again, little of attention is given to us, as the lady goes directly into reading, throwing an occasional look of wonder in our direction, that I believe has nothing to do with me or Daniel, but much more with what is just going on in her head. I know, because I often find myself doing exactly the same – staring, while a monotonous string of thoughts runs through my head.

After that, we don’t really say anything to each other anymore. The train steadily moves forward, stopping occasionally, letting people in and out. No one sits in our set, and at some point I use the empty spots for my own comfort. Daniel changes his position every once in a while; readjusting, stretching out his legs, or hiding them underneath the table. At some point, I see as he presses his temple against the window, eyes closing, his face donning a peaceful expression. First, I creepily lurk now and then, trying not to smile underneath my nose, as I catch him licking his lips, or rubbing his face with a free hand, as he sleeps. But then, his stillness moves contagiously onto me, and I lean my head against the backrest, closing my eyes. I know I probably won’t fall asleep, feeling uncomfortable and still quite anxious, but even resting like that brings me ease. 

Normally, however, I’d put in the effort to either small talk, joke, or at least try to occupy myself with something, but as much as I can blast an utter amount of nonsense, I enjoy silence. Only that I rarely feel like I can enjoy it with someone else. The relationship I have with Nicklas is a good example of low maintenance friendship, where we either swear each other off, or don’t say anything at all. But Sergio, someone that I frequently have sex with (or had, at least) and could easily label as my almost-boyfriend, well that is a no-go. Every time we promise each other we will just hang out, we always end up screwing each other, because the hang out only is an absolute cringe.

With Daniel, on the other hand, it is not like the silence is something entirely different. It still sounds empty and hollow, and maybe sometimes it is a bit of a cringe, but I find my pace with him. I find my comfort in sharing silent, undisturbed moments with him. I like to always prove something to someone, and with him I don’t have to. I like to always be on the go, on to different things, and with him I don’t have to. The silence doesn’t scare me in a sense that it will expose my deficiencies, the forever feeling of lacking something. The silence is there, and I feel like I’m right there with it for whatever it may bring.

The last half an hour we spend switching sides, finding better angles. I open my eyes frequently, and every time I see Daniel either pressing his head against the window, or hiding his face in the crook of his elbow, sprawled on the table in front. I wonder if he even slept tonight, because the sudden yanks and pulls of the train don’t wake him up. I have to say, he’s cute like that. Very cute, actually.

But then, the blissful journey comes to an end, as the train arrives to the central station in Copenhagen, and before it stops, there’s already a line of people in the aisle between the sets of seats, holding their bags, waiting impatiently to get off.

I lean in, gently grabbing Daniel’s arm. “Dan, wake up,” I say, as his forehead still rests at the crook of his elbow. “Come on,” I tell him, starting to smile as his head reluctantly moves up, and his face wears a sleepy expression. “We’re here.” 

He looks around slightly disoriented, and then rubs his eyes with both of his hands, just like toddlers in diaper commercials do. I smile at the thought of it, thinking that he possesses an awful lot of disarmingly adorable qualities, especially for someone whose entire outer appearance (including all-black outfits, Nazi-like haircut, tattooed arms, and the milky shade of his skin) is based on anything, but adorable.

Eventually, we’re the last ones to leave the carriage, fumbling around until we step outside. The day is already warm, and sunny, with bright rays of sunshine cutting through the air. It’s me, him, and a ton of other people now flooding the platform from multiple sides, dragging their bags, making urgent phone-calls, and manoeuvring in-between to get away from the crowd as fast as possible. For a moment we stand there in the middle, facing each other, foolishly smiling, until someone passing us by makes an angry remark (that I can understand only partially), and Daniel nudges at my arm, indicating it may be better if we move along. 

And we do, walking towards the main hall first, and then from there through the large entrance; without a word, our arms brushing against each other occasionally. It is the first time in almost over a month that I find myself surrounded by a large group of people that keeps off. No one is interested in me, nor him. No one stares, no one points, no one smirks, and no one cares.

“So, what happens now?” I finally ask, as we stand arm by arm on the sidewalk, next to the crowded bus stop. “It’s not like I have really made a plan,” I tell him honestly, and I see his lips curving into a soft smile. “I was thinking maybe we can just, you know–” I start to loose my shit the more I look him straight in the eyes, and he still smiles softly, “hang out.” I shift my gaze, now staring at the tip of my shoes. You’re an idiot; I tell the insides of my head, looking up after a while to face his grin. “What?” I ask again, as that smile of his is nowhere close vanishing. “I’m just going to ignore whatever is going on in your head that is so funny, and tell you we’ve actually made a plan. Now that I remember.”

Yet, my monologue is temporarily interrupted by someone in the back screaming someone else’s name, and it makes a vast portion of people, including me and Daniel, turn around to see who’s screaming. After a fair share of attention been given to the guy wearing a bucket hat and flip-flops (no offense, of course), I turn to Dan again. “I promised we’d go to the museum, and it’s not like I’m not down to go now, but I have no idea what museums here are worth seeing.” Not like I actually have any idea about museums in general, other than probably del Prado and, well, Louvre, but he doesn’t need to know about my severe lack of interest (and knowledge) in art.

Daniel motions with his head in direction of the bus stop, and I end up only shrugging my shoulders as a sign of partial agreement; a movement I have mastered over the time spent with him, in moments when I have no clue what we’re doing, where we’re heading, what might happen next. Funny part is, I always find myself enjoying the unknown, and somehow now I start to think that maybe if it wasn’t for the unknown – the unknown that he is, the unknown that he offers – I wouldn’t fall for him, as hard as I have. I wonder how would it be if, eventually, he could (would) speak. If words were falling off of his tongue, if laughter was hearable, not imaginable, if I was always to know for sure, and not just mildly drift between what he might like me to know. 

The bus is full, and we’re squeezed somewhere close to the second door. “In all seriousness, do you know where we’re going?” I ask discreetly, due to the proximity of others. He gives me another one of those soft smiles, and then looks away above the crowd, while I stare at his lips, first, then at his jaw, then the collection of freckles, and finally, his eyes – eyes that have reached some level of color, or been reaching levels of color in the past weeks; less blank, voided, somehow more shaded. When his gaze wanders back to me, I look away, smiling with the corner of my mouth, although I try my best not to. “Stop staring,” I tell him, still with a grin on my face, knowing that if any of us are staring then nine out of ten times it is me. He only shakes his head in response, looking above outside the window, and when the bus stops the next time, we leave.

Frankly, I’m surprised to notice that he moves smoothly, knowingly, as if these are the streets he passes by every day. Did he prepare himself, before coming? Has he ever been to Copenhagen? I shoot him another side-glance, opening my mouth, but eventually I choose not to ask. Maybe I should give-up on the idea of a full-on inquiry, and just go with it the same way as I have been going with it in the past.

We walk in silence for another fifteen minutes, until a large, almost monumental building starts peaking through. There is a round fountain, and a small garden on the side of the path. Not that many people, though. “I think it still might be closed,” I tell him, as we move forward, and it seems there is no human traffic outside the entrance.

I was right. It is closed until 11 in the morning, and as we both face the glass door of the Danish National Gallery (thank God for the informational title on the door, otherwise I’d be screwed) I just shrug my shoulders, and say, “we can grab something to eat and come back later. What do you think?”

He turns his head to me, nodding. We walk back taking the very same path, and then diverging somewhere left where it seems like there might be more life going on. “Usually I have eggs for breakfast, but I’ll be fine with just a coffee now. What do you want?”

As seconds pass by with no reply coming forward, I look at him, then he looks at me. And it is in this very moment that I realize he simply _can’t_ answer me, and since we’re on the go, it just seems unnatural for him to stop, and start writing something on a piece of paper (or maybe it was unnatural all the time before, but I never considered it problematic) – _bingo_. Problematic. It is also in this very (first) moment, that I consider it being problematic. Suddenly, I feel strangely taken aback; should I apologize? Should I look at him again, and say something like _I know you can’t tell me. It’s fine._ Though, is it ever fine, when you say it’s fine?

We pick a random coffee shop on a corner of something–something, and welcome ourselves to a rather cozy environment of big armchairs, little to no people, and a laid-back staff. As we stand by the counter I mutter loud enough for Dan to hear me, “just so you know, I won’t be talking in Danish.”

He grins lazily, and before one of the staff members approaches us, I think that I _love_ this lazy grin. I love how it spreads across his usually unfazed expression, how it adds something soulful to his blankness. How I never see him smiling like that, but with me. (Though that might be stretched into delusion, since I barely ever see him.)

“Uhm, hiii” I say, leaning forward against the counter, smiling to the guy standing in front. He says hi back. “I’ll take a regular coffee, and, uhm,” I turn to Daniel, words springing out of my mouth before I have a chance to stop them. “What are you gonna take?” 

Silence. He stares down into my eyes, and for a moment I don’t even realize I’m doing exactly the same thing my mom did the other day. _Shit._ “Do you want the same thing I want?”

Something sounds strange. “I mean, the same thing I’m gonna have?”

This is awkward.

But he nods his head, so I turn to the guy. “Two regular coffee’s then. Thank you,” and I see his gaze already locked on Daniel before it moves back to me. I don’t think it means anything, I don’t even find his stare obtrusive, but because _I know_ it makes me feel like everyone else _knows_ as well. 

“It’s 74 crowns,” says the guy, and then we both rush to pay, but I’m quicker.

“Next time is on you, okay?” I tell him, seeing as he rolls his eyes and nods his head disapprovingly. While we make our way to the table, I say. “Either way, what is wrong with getting my favourite a coffee?”

I was about to say _boyfriend_ , but I highly doubt we’re there yet. Even, _if_ we ever make it there. In such case then, a favourite is a safe bet. No right, no wrong – a generalized expression of a slightly non-general feeling. 

As we sit next to each other, arm-by-arm, he leaves a note for me on a crumbled tissue. _Nothing’s wrong with that. Thanks. Though I always thought you have other favourites._

My eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and it takes me a visible second longer to look away from the paper, and face his stare. “Really? Why? Have I disappointed you in my favourable treatment?”

He smiles, he nods his head again, he writes a response. And I think, being outwardly caught off-guard. I have had plenty of favourites; that is true. I have “dated” a variety of men, I have been seeing a variety of men, and I have had sexual encounters with a variety of men. I have liked their eyes, their hair, their smell, sometimes even their laugh. Often enough, I have went an extra mile, dug an extra length to get what I wanted, even if initially I wasn’t welcomed. I won’t deny any of that. But now that I’m with him here, in this empty coffee shop, sitting inches away, in the moment when he asks – though there is no straightforward formulation – I do not remember anyone before him. _Bullshit_ , screams a part of my brain. The one that thinks about Sergio for a split of a second; of that _almost_ something we may have once shared. 

 _I didn’t know I was getting any kind of favourable treatment._ “Ha,” I burst out with a half of a fake laugh. “Now you’re fishing for it.” 

But he shrugs his shoulders, and takes a sip of his coffee, and I stare at his profile. “You are my favourite,” I say, suddenly baring a serious tone, like I’d be issuing a formal statement. He turns his head to look at me, slowly, letting the words sink in I believe. “I’ve had favourites. Yes, plural. But now I have one. And it’s you.”

He takes another sip, head turning away, but I lean in, because now there is more to it. “Funny how you ask me this, when you have _Lisel_ by your side everywhere you go.” His head jumps back. “Yeah, I know her name. I know the story. It’s lovely.”

Dan writes back. _I haven’t asked you anything._

“True. Point for you. Well played.” I sit back, and I take a big sip of my coffee. Did this really happen? Have I just given him attitude for no apparent reason? He slides another note to my side of the table.

_No one wins in this game._

“Perhaps.”

_But you are my favourite too._

I punch his arm. “You can go fuck yourself now,” and I start to laugh.

In the end, we spend up to forty minutes more in the coffee shop, and then we head back to the museum. Thankfully, it is open, and we’re among the very few first ones to purchase tickets and enter. I let him pay. And frankly, I dread the moment standing in front of a painting. Any painting. 

“What exactly does this mean to you?” I ask, as we have walked across few rooms and my understanding of this essence still oscillates around zero. “Do you know about art in a sense that you link brush strokes to a certain period? Do you look at a shade and say this is, uhm, I don’t know, Rembrandt? Can you smell canvas’ and recognize the paint?” 

After the last question, he turns his head and gives me a smile – a smile that I usually associate with _you’re stupid._ Silly-stupid, I mean. Or, hope so.

“I’m serious, though.” I tell him, sitting down on a bench in front of a wall covered in paintings. He is about to leave the room and move on to the next one, but instead sees me taking a seat, comes back, and falls next to me. “What is there that I don’t understand?” 

My head turns, and our stares meet. I lean forward, centimeters away from his lips. “There clearly must be something that I don’t understand, because in a building full of art, I’d rather be staring at you.”

Dan’s lips break into a gleeful smile, and he pushes my face away with his hand. One more time, I start to laugh. “I swear. I’m not bullshitting.” But he is already getting up, which means our little tour continues. “I thought this line was pretty good,” I see his head turning around again; he’s glaring at me. “Can’t we just sit back here?” I hang in there for a second, but as Daniel disappears inside the next area, I mutter, “I suppose not then.”

I follow him rather sloppily, throwing occasional glances and trying to break through the beginner’s stage of _this is nice_ , _this isn’t_ , and _what exactly is this?_ What I enjoy more, however, is throwing occasional glances at him. Watching how he walks slowly, how he stops when something catches his attention, how he examines certain paintings, and how he stares at them with intensity excluding the existence of anything else, even me. He has his palms stuffed in his black jeans pockets, and his leather jacket weighs on his shoulders. In a couple of moments, as rooms turn into one, and paintings become (embarrassingly to me) similar to one another, I just wish he could talk to me about art. Even if it would be just one sentence; even if it would be _I think this is crap._ So I could reply I think this is crap too.

“Don’t forget about the promised afterwards,” I whisper to his ear some twenty minutes later, as we drag ourselves down another hallway, with more and more people passing us by. He gives me a quick look, and even a quicker smile, before we take off in direction of the exit. On our way though, we have stopped more than few times for Dan to get a better hold of some pieces, with me in the back, pretending like I know what I’m doing. Then again, I can’t say that I’m not even slightly enjoying myself. Whether I understand the precision and sophistication of brush strokes alongside the different takes on perspective, this all isn’t dull.

Once we exit the final area, and search for the restrooms, I start feeling the usual kind of building up excitement, which begins with warmth spreading through my spine, as I feel his palm behind the small of my back. Then, as we reach male’s bathrooms, and discover temporary lack of company, the feeling of warmth naturally escalates. We kiss.

He presses me against the main door, and as much as I take pleasure in being locked between his body and other objects, I have thoughts pulsating inside of my skull. _Someone might come in. Someone will come in._ But his tongue tastes too bittersweet for me to suddenly just stop. It tastes too much like what I’ve been craving in the past days, so I give in.

I drag my hands down his back, I cup his ass, and I pull him further against me. Pull him further and further, until we start to grind against each other, and I wrap one of my legs against his hip, allowing him better access. “Not here, alright,” I half-moan inside his mouth, and he grabs my hand, hauling me inside the very last bathroom stall.

This is so easy. He already knows me too well. He knows how to moderate his moves, so I turn both harder and weaker for him. He knows how to lick my neck, how to breath inside my ear, how to bite my lips. He knows when to scratch me and pin me and pull me, and when to do otherwise so I crush myself against him in a helpless and desperate call to get more.

I take his jacket off and I throw it to the ground. I take his t-shirt off and I throw it to the ground. I suck on his collarbones, the delicate skin beneath, I move to suck on his nipples, and I feel his fingers pressing around my head. I know what he wants, when he pushes it slightly lower and lower, and I know what I’m going to give him. 

Pulling away, I stare into his darkened eyes and I smile with the corner of my lips, leaning against the stall’s wall. His tattooed arms give me hell, as I want them entangled around my waist, imagining as he takes me from behind. God. Just fuck me already _._

I straight out my arms, reaching for his pants. I unzip them and I slide my hand down, grabbing at his cock through the soft material of his boxers. Dan secures himself against the wall, both of his hands falling to the sides of my head. I feel like I might come just looking at my fingers wrapped around the length of his shaft, bits of cum already leaking, wetting his underwear.

With one assured gesture I pull the garments down altogether, and I relish in the view, smiling. Then, as he observes my every move, I slowly sunk down to my knees, briefly kissing his lower torso, and the inside of his thigh.

One thing that throws me off is the fact that he looks down into my eyes, staring and staring, something I’m not used to, as a vast majority of my previous sexual partners would just smash my throat with their cocks, looking up to the ceiling. 

But I take him, first only tentatively sucking at the tip, smearing his pre-cum on my lips. Then, inch after inch, until I push him as deep as I can, keeping his cock almost fully inside of my mouth for long seconds, before I go all the way back up. Another thing that throws me off, nearly both as hard as it turns me on is that I do all the classic deep throating for the wow effect, for the dominance, for power, and he gives me none of it. He grows harder and harder, and he pulsates inside of my mouth, I know, I feel it, but other than that there is barely any sign he enjoys it. Moan for me, I dare you, moan for me, goes again inside of my head, but I can’t let these out.

I suck on his head, once more, this time instead of taking him all in, I move my mouth to suck on his sides, lick the length again and again, until he’s all wet from my spit. I like it, when they pull my hair. When he pulls my hair. I give him few strokes just with the hand, speeding up after a while, and when I’m about to take him inside of my mouth once more, Daniel grabs my arm and he pulls me up. “What is it?” I ask, whisper, as my voice comes out hoarse and incoherent. 

He pulls my pants down in a rapid, almost aggressive move, and he turns me around, pressing my chest against the wall. For a moment, I’m so utterly shocked that I open my mouth to protest, but can’t formulate a word. “What are you doing?” I manage to ask afterwards, this time louder, and he only buries his face in my neck, kissing. I feel him throbbing and wet against my ass cheeks, and I involuntarily cry out. He positions his cock in-between, but there is no pushing inside. Wet as he is, he slides with his length against my entrance, and I discover a new shock wave of pleasure hitting my senses. Daniel continues moving like that, slowly, delicately, pressing against and sliding, and sliding, and sliding, as I bent over and bite my own fist, choking on my own sounds. One of his palms moves up underneath my t-shirt, scratching over my nipple, and the other wraps around my hard, stroking accordingly to the speed of his hips.

Suddenly, there is a loud click of the door, and a range of voices tumble inside the bathroom. Dan stops all of his moves, pulling me closer to a tight embrace of his arms, and I lean against his chest with my back, his cock still in-between. I’m quite sure we are going to wait until they decide to leave, but then I feel as Dan’s hand presses against my lips, shutting all possible noises, while his other continues to jerk me off. He makes it one stroke at a time, his thumb circling around the head, before it slides all the way down again. Exhaustingly slow.

I turn my face to the side, breathing onto his neck; the warmth of his skin radiating. I take his hand away, leaving tiny kisses alongside the visible, greenish vein. Through the haze, I think that the voices disappeared and we’re being left to ourselves. But eventually, I might be wrong, as the haze grows, and the only thing that I can hear now is how blood pumps under my skin, reloading through the veins. There’s the pulsation in my abdomen that I recognize; the satisfaction that I crave. And then, in the end it’s everything. It’s how he speeds up, how he seeps warm liquid ‘tween my arse cheeks, how his hips move in violent splurges, and how his chest presses against my back. It’s so tight; the embrace, and the anticipation, and my orgasm. It shakes me; shakes through my spine, through my legs, my balance. There’s the blank nothingness, as I shut my eyes, and there’s a hollow sob that escapes from my mouth. It’s selfish again, it’s just me, and it’s just me, but it feels so overwhelmingly good I can’t stop, but throw myself to the bliss.

I open my eyes soon after, realizing we still stand like that. I turn to face him then, arms curling around his chest, my chin up, eyes looking into his. I want to tell him that normally I’m not _that_ selfish, that I actually enjoy giving, almost equally as I enjoy receiving, but it all vanishes halfway through my throat, incomplete. And then, he kisses me, and I kiss him back. For something like another ten minutes.

“Sorry about that,” I say, once we have broken the lip-lock, and he is now clearing his hands with the toilet paper. He smiles, sheepishly, and then grabs at my hip, turning me around. I feel how he wipes my back, and I start to laugh. “Thanks.” 

Before leaving the bathroom, we both wash our hands, and I try to ignore the messed up mirror reflection I have come to represent.

When we find ourselves in the hallway, I ask, “Is there anything else you want to see here?” and he nods his head in response, smiling once again, once again so lazily, with no effort. For a moment his arm stretches around my shoulders, and he pulls me closer to his side; a movement I have grown to like very much, but as more people walk by once we reach the final exit, he pulls away, and I notice the absence.

Dan takes his backpack from the cloakroom, and we leave the gallery, strolling back from where we came at first. I’m starting to feel hungry, and tired, and I’d gladly nap somewhere for a while, but I don’t know if he’s up for the same. Though, in this particular case, I’ll never know unless I ask.

So I do ask, whether he wants to _chill_ somewhere, and I see that once he replies, there is a sign of relief in his expression. We walk to the center, following almost the same route we have taken previously with the bus. Copenhagen isn’t that big, so we can well cooperate just walking. 

Somehow on our way to god knows where exactly, we decide that getting some fast food will spark us up. Once we stand in the line, however, we battle what one should take, and end up throwing serious statements that no food will be shared. I mean; I’m the one throwing these serious statements. I ask him, _do you want extra fries?_ It’s a no. I tell him, _I hope you know then I won’t share mine with you._ He smiles. _I also won’t share my barbecue sauce. I hope you’re fine with that too._ He smiles again. The last time I had a double-cheeseburger was… well, so far off I can’t even remember. _I’m asking you the very last time, because I don’t share food._

Of course, _of course_ he eats half of my fries, and finishes my coke in three gulps. He also thinks this is funny enough, and he also thinks this is the right moment to kiss me. I was actually wondering whether the straw is sharp enough to cut open his veins, but he just decided to kiss me. Mouth full with _my_ barbecue sauce and _my_ extra fries. 

“You little shit,” I throw an empty paper package at him, and he devours in his win, grinning like a stupid asshole that he is. “I’m going to take bits of that barbecue sauce…” and then I try to smash my nasty fingers in his perfectly defined, Nazi-like haircut, but he grabs my hand before, and tilts it to the side. “Just cause you’re taller than me, that doesn’t mean anything. I can take you.”

In the next hour or so, the phrase _I can take you_ is repeated by me quite frequently, although I highly doubt it has any meaningful effect on Dan’s bully-like behaviour. Which, naturally, has nothing to do with truly harmful bully-like behaviour, but Daniel presents his teasing with such persistence; in the end it doesn’t land that far away from bullying.

Even now, here, in the park, after we bought the blanket from a guy selling a bunch of most random things on earth, the problematic factor of how we’re going to share it, appears.

“Look,” I cut an invisible half between us, “this part is mine, that part is yours,” but before I manage to finish it with a line talking how the splitting really has little to do with my selfishness, and more with his annoying display of cuteness and childlike approach, he pulls me into a hug so rib-breaking, I can’t hear my own words. I’m squeezed somewhere between his armpit, and the left side of his ribs. I can’t breath. _Help me._  

I escape after a while, immediately rolling to the corner end of the blanket, and although I have difficulties breathing out, I smile. “Why is it always you, big people, that turn out to be even bigger softies?” His face turns utmost serious, and I begin to chuckle. “The taller, the softer, the taller, the softer, the taller, the sof–“ he shuts my mouth with his hand, but I’m still chuckling. And even if he’s not pulling me into a hug now, I demand one, as I roll back next to him, burying my face onto his left side. This; this right here. That’s my ultimate chill zone, my _ultimate_ spot. Not on top of his chest, not where I can hear his heart beating, his blood pumping, his lungs falling. Here, his side, the ribs. And how I can stretch out my arm to mess with his perfect hair, and how he pushes my hand back, but in the end allows me to keep it there, between his strands.

We fall asleep like that; sprawled on the blanket, among the groups of people. Dan’s backpack underneath his head, my face pressed onto his side, one of my arms stretched out and still playing with his hair, while the other is unnaturally curved under my hip. I feel one of his palms holding my nape, and when I’m drifting mildly asleep, I think that this is the most bizarre place he could possible hold on to.

The only reason why I wake up, some long time after is because I can’t feel my entire right arm belonging to my body anymore. I open my eyes, blinking and Dan next to me is still asleep. 

I sit up, stretching, and turning, and yawning, and rubbing my eyes. All in that, exact order. I curl my knees up to my chest, and I place my chin on top. I observe people, but there is no coherent path of thoughts going on in my head. Instead, there is a mixture of everything – that post nap fuckery, which roots inside of your brain.

I turn my head to the side, looking at Dan’s absent expression. He furrows his eyebrows unconsciously from time to time, and I think it looks funny. Then, all of a sudden, I wonder what the absolute fuck am I even doing here, with him, if it’s all going to end in less than I can imagine. I should tell him, shouldn’t I? Maybe not necessarily now, I’m not going to wake him up, and be like _listen, I don’t know if I’m going to be here next week. I might not be here in three days. I still might be here in two, though. Hang out with me, okay? Do the most stupid shit with me. Nap with me. Eat cereal with me. Watch Rocky with me. Don’t go. Don’t let me go._ Of course, I’m not going to do that. What I’m going to do, instead, is that I’m going to float until this all ends, and hope, hope deeply and vigorously, that it won’t hurt. That once I spell goodbye, I’ll forget. Once and for all. Like Nicklas told me; you’ve gotten what you wanted.

I feel his hand on my back, and I turn around. I break a smile, because he breaks a smile. And it is one of those sleepy ones; when eyes are still swollen, and lips are a bit dry, and the vision is blurry.

“We slept for two and a half hour,” I tell him, as he sits up. He takes a bottle of water out of the backpack, and he first moves it in my direction, “asking” if I want some. “Nah, thanks,” I respond, and he sips. “We should probably make the best out of it, before heading back,” I suggest. “Unless, of course, you just want to stay here.”

I wanted to end it with _cuz I really don’t mind, you know. As long, as I’m with you._ But I don’t end it like that, obviously. Not because it’s too much, not like that boyfriend line, but in the light of what I was just thinking about, suddenly I’m in a withdrawal mood. Regret adding up, my realistic voice saying I’ve let it go way too far. I have let myself go way too far.

Daniel stands up, he puts his jacket on, and he takes out his hand, initiating I should get up, which I do. He then folds the blanket, tucking it inside the backpack. We leave the park quite reluctantly I feel, as if leaving behind an unexpected treasure. As the sun melts above, and the strings of afternoon light become less and less warm, there is a strong feeling of nostalgia that settles within us. Or more precisely, settles within me. I don’t want to say _in life_ , but as you pass your days, of course some of them are better than the others. Some of them are just _exactly_ like the others, some of them are undoubtedly worse, and then there are those days, like today is – a day unlike any. A day in which every, single, possible moment fits in perfectly with the other. Moments that roll in together, and give so much of joy, in its purest, rawest form, that you don’t want to let them go, mostly in question of when will you feel that joyful again. These are rare, and I’ve always been advised that if you catch these moments, you hold on to them for dear life.

We explore the city in the mix of errors and trials. Some long streets lead us to others, and some lead us nowhere. For minutes, we stay silent, and in those minutes I wonder whether I should be talking to him as much, as possible in order to maximize the time we have left, for it may not come again. At least not in this sense; not just the two of us – free, some kind of relaxed, able to experience ourselves without the nagging fear of getting caught. _Caught_ , I resent this word. _Caught_ , as if we would be doing something shameful, and forbidden, and inhuman. And we don’t.

We also argue a lot for a pair of people, in which one is unable to speak. We really do. I tell him, _we have passed that street already_ , and he nods his head, and when I repeat the same statement, as we pass another street I believe we have passed already, he nods his head even more energetically. He also happens to roll his eyes a lot, when I give us geographical guidance, and when I say, _it’s your fault we’re lost, cause I clearly said not to go that way_ he even throws his arms in the air, and abruptly turns around to walk in a different direction. Then, of course, I’m forced to shout after him and apologize for such outward lies. “So what,” I say ultimately, choking on my own laughter. “I may lie from time to time. You lie to me all the time.” He then pushes me so hard, I stumble across a trashcan. Not that it has made my laughter stop. “Push me onto the trashcan once more, and I’ll throw you under a bus.”

As suspected, an hour into a mindless city wander, I stop issuing any kind of orientation advice, and I shut up, just walking next to him. I don’t think he knows the city any better than I do, but I suppose he has that immediate, territorial fluency, usually belonging to those who grew further from urban areas. It seems he easily remembers all the little details of the streets, corners, and buildings, and as much as I’d label myself as the one notoriously observing, I only pick to remember what fits my interest. He, however, seems to remember everything.

“I think we just walked into a gay neighbourhood” I say quite happily, looking around a variety of shops with the LGBT flag; few holding rather sexually expressive window displays of dildo’s and S&M dressing. On the opposite, there are thrift stores, tacky diners with neon banners, and a vintage vinyl shop. _We have bluetooth headphones, you can use for free,_ says the handmade writing on the small, entry door, we happen to stop in front. Only a block further the neighbourhood appears to smoothly run into more upscale scenery, with little outdoor gardens, bikes pinned, and people late afternoon lunching. But even here, the less fancy part still carries the feel of mixing both the tasteless, and tasteful. “You want to come inside?” I ask him, holding the knob. 

At first he shrugs his shoulders, but then his lips curve gently, and he nods his head, a _whatever_ kind of expression I have learned to recognize among many others, falsely similar, yet so distinguishable to my perception now.

The store is everything (and a little beyond) of what I expected it to be. It surely must land on those off-guide guides that introduce city visitors to less crowded, still intensely praised local spots. As we enter, there are rows and stacks of vinyls. And I mean, _rows_ and _stacks_ of _vinyls._ Far in the back, there is a small counter with two guys lively arguing behind it, and in between, among those musical gems, there is quite a bit of people hanging around, everyone minding their own business though.

Once I turn to Daniel, I notice he’s no longer standing behind my back, but already exploring a section. So I move over there, peeking, and then, as Dan is looking over one of the covers, I squeak. “Oh. My. God,” I grab what looks like an original vinyl record of Robert Palmer’s _Addicted to Love_ single’s edition. I examine it back and forth; the covers bruised corners and stains; its probably turbulent course of life, before bouncing back in here, among the shelves. I notice only now, how Dan looks at me, eyebrows up in a questioning expression. “Juergen would die. Robert Palmer is the actual love of his life. Believe me. If there’s anything I know about him, then that’s it.” Dan smiles, and puts back the vinyl he’s been examining on his own. “Should I get it for him?” I ask, but more to myself rather to him. Either way, Daniel nods his head in an approving gesture, and I start stupidly smiling.

Music’s been one thing bonding us, despite the often offensive, regressive, and simply difficult relationship we’ve grown to have. And although our tastes vary greatly, there are few artists, few CD tracks, few MTV Unplugged performances that both of us love and cherish. Robert Palmer is surely not the one we have in common, but Juergen once compiled me a 5AM training routine playlist, so I could bear the mornings. I can get him the vinyl. I can even try to say through it _sorry I’ve been such a fuck up lately–well, for the past decade. Here’s your Robert Palmer. Forgive me._  

Taking the vinyl, I join Dan on the way down, surprised that the stairs are even there. You can’t see them at first, as they unfold from behind the wall, one more so exponentially filled with music. Others are covered with posters, and t-shirts, all of which look untouched since Cyndi Lauper’s _Girls Just Wanna Have Fun_ in 1983. Now, that’s my mom’s jam, which I honestly don’t want to discuss. (The _worst_ musical taste of the household, though the song itself is not _that_ bad).

Downstairs, the rows and stacks of vinyl turn into the rows and stacks of old CD’s, some still originally packed. “No fucking way,” I whisper in shock, looking at old VHS and tapes. _Vhs_ and _tapes._ The last time I have watched a VHS movie was probably at the very end of my kindergarten career. The Lion King, yes, it was The Lion King. Probably the last VHS I have seen, and probably the first serious heartbreak I’ve had.

Me, and Dan split between the shelves, both entirely amazed with the current findings. There is everything, starting from some renewed medieval recordings, to Tenacious D. Most of the albums are divided into genres, like rock, soul, pop, jazz, then by more or less popular artists for that given genre. Then there are those CD’s I could have never imagined anyone producing, and then there are those that are _handmade_. The fact that there are still people who put together their own playlists, name them, and come here to drop them off for others leaves me in a state of awe. To think I can’t even finish my own _Spotify_ playlists.

I turn around to check what Daniel is up to, and then I see him meticulously searching for something in between other CD’s. In one of his hands he’s holding the headphones, and my curiosity immediately picks up. I walk over to him, now brushing my arm against his. “I wanna know how it all works,” I tell him, and then he turns to face me, passing me the headphones he’s been holding. He shifts few steps away, grabbing another set, then moving back. He connects them with a plug-in, but I oppose. “They said they have them with bluetooth,” and then Dan points at a paper pinned next to the _CD player_ (what is this place? _Back to the future?_ ) saying _Bluetooth headphones are upstairs._ Now, that ours are both on and connected, there is a matter of song choice. “Don’t fuck it up for yourself,” I tell him, as he’s still searching for a CD. His gaze turns, and he breaks a confident, cheeky smile. “Pick a wrong song, and I’m taking you off the favourite spot,” I’m fucking with him.

But to be honest, I actually couldn’t give two shits about what he picks. I don’t believe in certain musical preferences being superior to others. For certain artists to hold a higher more sophisticated note. I may make fun of you, like I make fun of my mother listening to Julio Iglesias, or Nicklas blasting dumbfounding techno sets. Yet, I respect your right to enjoy whatever music you prefer, even if it makes my ears bleed and my vision blank. Anyone who believes otherwise, _you’re an asshole._  

When the first riffs of _Beast Of Burden_ flood my ears, I immediately begin to smile. I like this song, I like it a lot. I like how Jagger’s rough voice comes together, breaking through variations. Daniel smiles as well, his head lightly nodding to the rhythm. 

We stand there, in the empty basement, our headphones connected through a long cable, with the same string of sounds pouring into our hearing. I feel somewhat overwhelmed, always considering listening to music rather a personal act, instead of unification. Apart from those few times when it has helped Juergen and me to briefly unify.

_I’ll never be your beast of burden. So let’s go home and draw the curtains. Music on the radio. Come on baby make sweet love to me._

“Come on baby make sweet love to me,” I repeat after, smiling first softly, then widely. Although Daniel can’t hear me, I’m quite sure he caught the meaning, his lips starting to curve. I take a step further, the tips of our shoes touching, and despite the scrutiny of his look, I’m feeling more and more relaxed, allowing the tunes to brush through me.

_Am I hard enough. Am I rough enough. Am I rich enough. I’m not too blind to see._

“You’re definitely rough enough,” I say, barely being able to hear my own voice through the music. Daniel motions with his finger around his ear, probably trying to let me know that he can barely hear me too. I lean in then, pulling one of his headphones aside, “I said that you’re definitely rough enough, you pretty girl.” 

Then, my own words match with those of Jagger, and the _pretty, pretty girl_ line is repeated through the verse, and even once the lyrics change into another quickly, I still echo the pretty, pretty girl into his ear, laughing in between. He yanks at my t-shirt, our chests clashing. “No public kissing,” I tell him, as one of his arms run around my waist, pulling me closer. He again motions with his finger around the headphone, that I let go of a second ago, trying to fool me into thinking that he can’t hear me.

And when he leans in, so naturally and easily, I turn around in the tight grasp of his arm. “Change of the song,” I demand, taking my headphones off, leaving them around the neck. “My turn now.”

As I browse through what seems like infinity of CD’s, Dan is still holding his arm around my waist, his chest pressed against my back. Since I’m not the biggest fan of public display of affection, I’d normally ask him to stop, but there is something cool and low-key about how he does it. Not counting in the times, when he’s awfully not cool and not low key about it. (Aka the park.)

There. That’s a risky one, but before I reach out to take the CD, I tell him, “Turn around. It’s a surprise.” 

I smile boldly, choosing Etta James _At Last!_ album among many others. I open the player, taking out the previous CD, and putting in the new one. Alright, I remember how it works. Now, time to pick the song. Not an obvious choice, though, since Etta James has left us all with a collection of purely brilliant tunes. 

_All I Could Do Was Cry._

I press the play button with an ounce of hesitation, and then I turn around. Dan’s headphones, just as mine, are left around his neck, but the music is loud enough to be heard. Sounding quite muffled, and buffered, but still there. As the intro goes by Dan doesn’t smile, his head doesn’t nod, he’s stiff, and standing straight as ever.

So, I move. I take a gentle step further, and I bring my arms up, first slowly sliding them over his chest, stopping only once I reach his shoulders, hands forming a tight grip. “I saw them holding hands,” I whisper, my voice irregular between the one of Etta’s, sounding too harsh, and too crude, despite being a whisper. “She was standing there with my man. I heard them promise ‘till death do us part. Each word was a pain in my heart.”

And when her tones hit the higher _oh_ I let loose for the first time, I believe, my upper body part starts softly swaying to the sides, a small smile adorning my face. Then, I feel as Dan’s hands move to grab my arms, and he takes one of it into his embrace, allowing the other to remain on his shoulder. His left hand, however, encircles my waist, and he pulls me in. He pulls me in to, what is my biggest surprise, something that few would probably call a dance. Our feet step inches to the sides, just inches, and the movement of our hips are so mild, that they are hardly traceable.

As she sings _I was loosing the man that I love and all I can do was cry_ Dan drags his hand further, and it is only then that I realize I’m slowly, slowly turning around, awkwardly to add. There is no smoothness between my steps, no romance in how I land back to face him, his mouth wide and smiling. It’s just lovely.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” I tell him, as Etta James comes out of our headphones, but he quickly rushes to put a finger on my lips. “Oh, now you like the song,” I say, as he presses his index finger further. I start to laugh, letting go of his hand, only to encircle both of mine around his neck. “Make it unbearably romantic and kiss me now, “ I say to his lips, and before I can think of his smile, he kisses me.

He kisses me knowing how I liked to be kiss, which is quite surprising, because all in all we didn’t have that many uninterrupted chances to kiss. He kisses me, and I think for a moment that we’re in public, but then I also think to hell with that. He kisses me, and he’s slow, at first, but then his tongue fastens, and he tastes like the coffee we’ve had, but more like the coke of mine he drank. He kisses me, while one of his hands tangles my hair, pushing my head.

_All I could do was cry. All I could do was cry. I was loosing the man that I love and all I could do was cry._

There is a hollow emptiness, once she finishes to sing, and in those brief seconds I can only hear the satisfying noise of our hums, and how our teeth clash, and when I’m pressed against the counter, I moan. But before it gets truly heated, there is a loud, cracking noise of the stairs, and we officially get caught.

It’s one of the guys I saw arguing behind the counter, and he’s standing now meters away, hands on his hips. Sure, we are already apart, but it doesn’t stop him from uttering something that sounds like a string of commands. He talks so fast, I can’t understand any of what he says, and when he notices that none of us respond, he switches to English. “We know that the ambience works in favour of sexual rendezvous, but there is a clear sign upstairs saying _No blow jobs between the aisles_ and it’s both in Danish and English.”

“We were just kissing,” I respond, trying hard not to roll my eyes.

“Yeah, but I know that kissing never stops at just kissing.”

I smile. “Fine. We’re sorry.”

“Next time mind the cameras,” he points at the cameras located in the corners of the ceiling, and I just nod my head. The guy turns around, but midway the stairs, he stops, and says. “Also don’t forget to pay for the vinyl. I know what you teenagers are up to nowadays.”

“No need to be rude,” I reply, but I know he can’t hear me, as he already disappeared upstairs. I kiss Dan shortly. “Let’s go pay, and bounce. It’s gonna be shitty if we end up being late.”

We leave the headphones, and take Etta out of the player, only to put the CD back into its place. Once we get upstairs and stand by the counter, the other guy starts talking to us in Danish, but again I don’t understand anything, so I have to ask him to switch.

“Sorry about him,” the guy motions with his head at his co-worker, who’s now talking to some other clients. “He’s not in the mood today. I told him to leave you alone, but he didn’t listen.” 

I wave my hand. “It’s okay, actually for the better,” and I’m glad to notice that the guy just smiles in response, instead of asking a set of unnecessary questions. Not that I mind the small-talk so badly, but given the situation of Daniel not being able to say anything, it’s just easier to avoid it. 

I pay for the vinyl, and ask Dan to keep it in his backpack. I greet the guy goodbye, and we leave the store. “Shit,” I say, looking at my phone screen. “We only have an hour to catch the train.”

And Dan moves his head in direction of where we came from, me deciding that it is probably smarter to follow his route, instead of coming up with one on my own.

How we didn’t make it on time, I honestly don’t know. First, it seemed we were going in the right direction, but then I remembered otherwise. I wanted to say something, but because I’ve already given so many utterly wrong tips on how to get somewhere, I just shut my mouth. Twenty minutes after, when we still thought we had time, I started asking around, and different people were giving us different advice. Some were saying to use metro; some were telling it’s best to get on a bus. Then, we tried to get an Uber, but there was a problem popping up with my card. Fucking useless technology, I was saying, before we successfully managed to hail a cab. Due to heavy restrictions and some road constructions, it has taken the taxi-driver twice as much as it would have taken him normally to reach the station. We also tried to run as fast as possible through the halls, and escalators, but nothing stopped the pain of seeing our train just taking off. 

“Juergen is going to fucking kill me,” I say, as we stand at the empty platform, breathing out heavily. I still helplessly look around, naively hoping that it was a mistake, and our train is just about to roll onto the tracks. Nope. Wasn’t a mistake. I hiss out, visibly pissed off. I shrug my shoulders unnecessary amount of time, and then I move to sit on the metallic bench, in front of the tracks. Dan sits next to me, his face baring a neutral expression.

“Sorry,” I say, few minutes after. “It’s just that he’ll never believe me we were doing our best not to be late. He’s gonna assume that I just couldn’t give a fuck about making it on time. And I promised I’ll come home tonight.” 

It takes me another few minutes to entirely cool down, and get my mind going, seeking another way of how to come back. Dan is not saying anything, of course, but I also know it’s not going to cause him trouble, if he’s not to show up home tonight.

On our way out of the platform, we stop by one of the information counters, to ask about the next train leaving (which is at 9 in the morning), and to make sure there won’t be another one leaving tonight (which it won’t).

We buy the tickets, and the only issue rest facing is to call Juergen. Before I do so, I tell Daniel, “what we can do is to have dinner soon, and then either come back here, or spend the whole night up. There is no other way, unless you wanna search for a hotel to stay in.” 

Which would be the most comfortable solution, however I didn’t want to stretch any of our budgets. Besides, staying up all night might be some kind of fun after all.

I take my phone out and dial Juergen’s number, taught by experience that it is much better to get with this nasty business sooner than later. He answers after a while. “Hi,” I say, tone of voice casual. He says hi back. “Listen Juergen, there’s been–uhm–a little something.”

“What happened?” he asks immediately, also taught by experience.

“We–uhm–you know, missed our train.”

“Well done, Fernando.” 

“The problem is that the next one is tomorrow morning.” 

There are some sharp seconds of silence, before I hear him grunting. “That’s even better.”

I sigh. “I’m so sorry. We really tried, you know, to get to the station on time, but we got lost, and there was traffic, and–“ 

“I know your ways. Don’t bother explaining.” 

“I promise you that–“

“What time are you coming tomorrow?” 

“The first train leaves at 9, so I won’t be later than 11 in the morning.” 

“Where are you going to sleep? At the train station?”

“I don’t know. We haven’t figured that one out. I’m sorry. I know I told you–“

“If you’re going to come later than twelve–“

“I won’t. I swear.”

“Mhm.”

“I’ll text you in the morning once we get on the train, okay?”

“I wouldn’t be counting on it,” he makes a large pause afterwards, and I don’t know if I should say something else, or wait for him to catch up. “Take care of yourself, okay? Don’t do anything stupid, alright?” 

I smile. “Yeah. Yeah. We’ll be fine.”

“You better be.”

“I’m sorry, Juergen.”

“Be careful. Call me if anything. Maybe I should come–”

“No, it’s all good. We’re gonna be good. I just wanted to call to let you know.”

“I know. Thanks. I’m still pissed though, so don’t think you can be late tomorrow.”

I smile again. “Yeah, no, I know. I know. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow. But like I said, don’t do anything stupid.”

I roll my eyes. “I won’t.”

“Alright. Bye. Love you.”

And he hangs up, before I get a chance to add anything else. _Love you._ It stings with me, because I genuinely do not recall getting such an easy-going _love you_ coming from him in a while. Sounding as if we exchange those two words on a regular basis, and we don’t.

I turn to look at Daniel. “Do you wanna grab a proper dinner?” He nods in return. “I’m starting to get hungry. You?” He nods again, and I smile cheerfully, only now feeling like I have truly cooled down. As we make our way back into the main hall, his arm pulls me into a quick hug, and I smile even wider. “What’s that one for, huh?” 

He just shrugs his shoulders. “Get it. Just cause you like me.”

As we leave the central station, we start to debate over where and what we want to eat, which of course isn’t easy, given the fact that Daniel doesn’t speak, yet remains highly opinionated and stubborn. From what I’ve noticed so far, our main issue is that we’re both highly opinionated and stubborn, and we both find sure ways to let these two variables out.

We end up back in the gay neighbourhood, picking one of the tacky diners with neon entry lighting. By the time we manage to get a table, and order, I’m starting to feel the exhaustion kicking in. I lean against the window, facing Dan’s curious stare. “It was a nice day, wasn’t it?”

He smiles; corners of his lips perking up gently. He nods his head; first one, slow nod, and then the full movement. His perfectly styled hair is not so perfect anymore. I look away, picking a napkin, folding and unfolding its corners.

“You know, there’s so many things I’d like to ask you about,” I suddenly say, fixing my stare on that one, deep wrinkle my monotonous actions have come to create. “Things I have so far asked other people, but you. I’ve asked my grandma, my stepfather, also that priest working at the center. I’ve asked Nicklas, I guess so many times now he doesn’t even want to hang out with me anymore in fear he’ll have to answer yet another set of never-ending questions.”

I look up then, pausing. I look at his stare, already fixed on me. His expression motionless, just like every other time I start to push his boundaries, whether that would be physically or mentally. “I never wanted to ask you, because I didn’t want it to seem like I cared, which I didn’t at the beginning. I didn’t want to spoil what I thought would only be fun. I didn’t want you to think–mainly–that things I’m curious about bother me. Like, the fact that you don’t speak. How you’d always jump back if I moved towards you too fast. You don’t do that anymore, though. At least, not with me. Why do people ignore you as if you’d carry a stigma? Is your family homophobic? What happened to your mom?” 

I stop there. I stop, once I begin to notice how his eyebrows furrow, how for a split of a moment there is something hurtful piercing through his face.

“Harsh, huh?” I ask, a humourless chuckle leaving my throat some seconds after. “I know. There are things I wouldn’t want to be asked about too. But I have been,” I pause again. I look down on my napkin, cautiously folding corners again. Slowly this time. “Are you happy with yourself? I’ve been asked this question many times, mostly sarcastically. Is your mom an alcoholic? That was my middle-school principle. How many times more can we have sex until you become untouchable? When I didn’t answer, he told me he was of course joking. Do you think your father would be proud to know you suck dick? That one I answered to. I even smiled. My dad is dead, I said.”

I’ve been looking at him for a while now, a crumbled napkin between my hands.

“I’m not particularly happy with myself on a daily basis. I’d bet good money I’m unhappy with myself more than I’m happy with myself. And yes, my mom is an alcoholic. That is very true. She just knows, well, not always, but mostly how to put on a good show.”

My mind doesn’t seem to comprehend, but I feel myself smiling.

“I don’t know if I’m untouchable. It’s difficult to say. You tell me. Am I untouchable? Do you feel disgusted once you’re done pleasing me? You please me well. Just so you know. And, just so you know I’ve been with five guys. Sex-wise. If you ever wondered. General sexual encounters close probably more than five. I’m clean, though. If you ever wondered about that as well. My blood is tested more than once a year. For sport reasons. Also, because Juergen likes to think I take crystal meth recreationally.”

I chuckle then. Humour in. 

“Do you think I’d take part in trials for the pre-Olympic team if I had been doing crystal recreationally? That’s one of the questions I have asked Juergen plenty of times, but he would always just shrug his shoulders. Can’t blame him though. After all, the reason why I was expelled from my previous school was because of drugs.”

It’s the first time he smiles. The first time he shakes his head. The first time he looks away, me facing his profile. Then his stare comes back. One thing that baffles me about him; has baffled me about him, is that when I pile off a certain layer of myself–shameful, evil, nerve-wracking, let’s say negative, I expect him to react piling off a certain layer of criticism, discontent. I know how to counterattack that behaviour. Instead, he listens, and he accepts. He takes me in. What is going on in his head then and now, I don’t know, I’ll probably never know, but he’s here today, this evening, with me, isn’t he? I’ve piled myself off until there is little left, and he’s still here.

“The reason I tell you all of this,” I pick up again, looking him in the eyes, “is not because I try to trick you into telling me what I’m personally curious about. Don’t tell me, if you don’t feel like it. This is not an ultimatum.”

I pause again. A short breath follows up.

“I’m telling you all of this, because–uhm–I’m in love with you, and if there is a small chance you might be in love with me too, I want you to know that–uhm–that I’m many awful things.”

I start to smile, mostly because I hope it will make him smile too. 

“I might be some good things as well, you know.” 

He takes the napkin that I’ve been so maniacally folding back and forth. He starts to write, and I feel my chest pulsating; lungs clenching, and ribs tightening; exhale short and soundless.

_You’re good things, and you’re awful things. And I’m in love with both._

But before I have the chance to properly reply, our food arrives, and the waitress puts it on a table with little grace, but a cheerful smile. “Enjoy,” she says, and I thank her. 

We start to eat, but every once in a while when I steal a glance, it seems like all we both do is push the food around the plate. “Not that I have lost my appetite, but,” I can’t finish, words lost in the back of my throat. Suddenly, Daniel gets up, taking his plate. He’s going to leave, I think at first, but then he sits down next to me, in the booth, putting his plate next to mine. 

“The fact that you have ordered breakfast menu for dinner is very confusing,” I say, looking at his scrambled eggs and a bagel. He starts to smile, picking one of my fries, and as that single fry makes a slow way onto his mouth, I eye him, deadly staring. “Again. You’re doing this again.” 

He smiles full-teeth on, and I just shake my head. “Whatever. Guess that’s one of your awful things, I’ll have to be in love with too.”

He smiles even wider now, grabbing his bagel and taking a bite. I probably shouldn’t be staring, and when he side looks in a sort of why–the–hell–are–you–looking–at–me way, I smile again, moving on to my grilled chicken breast.

We eat in silence, occasionally exchanging sips; him having my coke (again), me having his ice tea (who orders breakfast menu with ice tea?). We don’t talk, arms brushing from time to time, the sides of our thighs pressed against each other under the table.

I believe it is about ten minutes later, when we’re almost done with our dinner (and breakfast), someone from the booth behind us, grabs my arm, and I immediately turn around.

“Sorry,” the guy says probably noticing my abrupt flinch. “We’ve overheard you talking in English, and wanted to ask, since it’s our last night in Copenhagen, if you boys know what’s a good night club here.”

I swallow the last bit of chicken. “Yeah, hi, sorry,” I smile. “Uhm. To be honest, I have no idea. We’re here just for the day.”

He nods his head apprehensively. He smiles then, with a corner of his lips, lazily. He’s around twenty-nine years old. My best guess. “Would you be interested in joining us if we find a place to go?” 

Dan turns around; he looks at the guy first, then at me. “I really don’t know. We’re leaving early in the morning, and–“

“So you have the whole night for yourselves.”

Once he interrupts me so blatantly, I intensify my stare, searching for something similar in his face. There is something I recognize, and at the beginning I mistakenly take it for a feature, a look that he has, but then I know what it is. It’s the confidence, and the attitude–characteristics that I identify within a single snap of fingers, since these are the qualities I’ve always been drawn to.

“I’ll let you know, okay?” I fix the nicest of my smiles, and then look around, for the first time, between his two friends. None of them look particularly sketchy, heck, I’d even say they all bare a sure amount of attractiveness, however the only thing that has changed is the fact that I don’t feel the pull anymore. Great, you’re a group of nice looking gals, good for you.

“What is it?” I ask Daniel, because ever since we’ve turned back, he kept his stare on me. Now, that I ask the question, he just shrugs his shoulders. “Are you mad that I talked to him?” I try to keep my voice low, but Dan immediately shakes his head in a no-response. “So? You wanna go with them?”

I think my surprised tone has taken him a bit aback, because for a second he becomes once again so expressionless. His lips make the downward move. Few times. “I mean, we can go if you want to. It’s not like we have anything else to do, but I just assumed you wouldn’t want to.” 

He smiles. “Alright. I like that. Let’s go,” I say, still quite surprised, and when Dan moves back to finish his bagel, I give him a few of suspicious side looks, wondering what has caused the push. Every single time I think I have gotten to know him a tiny bit better, he always proves me otherwise.

I excuse myself to go to the bathroom, and once I come back Dan is already standing by the counter, handing the check to the girl behind. I roll my eyes. What a stubborn ass. 

“Are you guys ready to go?” I ask, once I’ve made my way to the table of our temporary neighbours. They all look at me briefly, although the guy that I’ve talked to ostentatiously prolongs his stare, finishing with a cheeky smile.

“Glad you’ve changed your mind. Let us pay and we can leave.”

I give them a quick nod, saying, “Take your time,” and I walk back to Daniel, who’s waiting by the busy entrance. “Dan,” I start, knowing this got to be quick. “I hate to be a party pooper, but unless we leave them once a good occasion arrives, they will probably want a gang bang.”

He gives me a silly look. “I promise you. No jokes.” He then looks at me a bit more seriously, gazing over to the group of three now situated by the counter. “Let’s go and have fun, I’m down for that, but let’s leave them, before anything can happen.” 

I know he doesn’t believe me, and he has every right to do so, and maybe in reality I am starting to sound like my own grandmother, but I have been in a similar situation one too many times in my life not to know how this may unfold.

We leave the diner within the next five minutes, and at first everything seems to run smoothly. The two guys that haven’t exchanged so much as a word with me (nor Daniel) are now preoccupied with their own discussion, whereas the third one walks next to us, small-talking. 

At some point though, his head jerks to the side. “You haven’t said a thing since we’ve left the place,” his heavy, French accent pours in. I look at Dan, but he only breaks a smile. The guy turns to me. “Have I done something?” 

I smile. “No. You haven’t. He’s just like that.” And exactly when I expect an intruding flow of inquiry, I’m surprised to notice that the guy only shrugs his shoulders in response, allowing himself a tiny smile.

Next fifteen minutes we spend in front of a nosy entrance of what turns out to be one of the most popular bars in the neighbourhood. The guys light a cigarette after a cigarette, engaging and then not-engaging us (me?) in one of their passionate conversations. Although, the conversations may just sound passionate, since every other word said in French spits passion.

Once we are inside, it gets even more difficult to properly communicate; the bar is spacious and filled with people. There are two rooms, unfortunately only one bar. “It feels claustrophobic,” I hang behind Daniel’s shoulder, as we stand in what seems a queue that has naturally formed itself around the bar, given the hordes of people trying to get a drink. The French guys separated, moving just meters away from us.

I wonder if this isn’t the perfect moment for us to evacuate. I even open my mouth to issue the intro line to Dan, but then, mid-way, I realize it’s just the bits of my anxiety finding its way through a deja-vu. Like I’ve mentioned before, I’m no stranger to a situation as such; surrounded by complete strangers, preferably older, preferably able to buy me a drink or two, preferably wanting just a brief intercourse. Never as an exchange of favours, or who am I trying to kid?

“It feels really claustrophobic,” I repeat again, as the loud beats of music hang above in the air. Daniel turns his head around, eyes moving questioningly across my face. “I don’t know what it is. It keeps happening lately.” It actually does. This spasmodic breathing. “I’ll be fine,” I tell Dan, once his head jerks few times in direction of the entrance.

The moment someone pushes hard against my back, I’m sure accidentally though, I flinch with an uneasy feeling. “Dan,” I start, and he turns around, this time fully. “I need to go to the bathroom, alright? I’ll be okay. Just give me five minutes. I don’t think this line is even going to move by the time I come back.”

Of course, he doesn’t say anything, but when that interrogating look doesn’t disappear off of his face, I nod my head. “I swear. I’m okay.”

When I start walking away, I feel someone grabbing my arm. I flinch again. “Where are you going?” asks the French guy. I smile with a visible difficulty. “Just to the bathroom. It’s too much of a crowd for me here.” 

He shakes his head, but before I give him a chance to reply, I’m already moving in direction of the restrooms. Thank the lord there are three separate rooms, and the one in the far end is what I choose, hoping there will be less people there.

I open the door, a group of guys just coming out. Most of the bathroom stalls are half open. I stand by the long sink, and I open the water run. First, I just splash my face, but the feeling of relief isn’t satisfactory enough, so I push my head underneath. Better. It’s cold, but it feels better.

It is just few minutes. Maybe two, three, that I pull myself back, and it is only the reflection in the mirror that strikes me hard out of the zone.

His eyes are the first thing that I notice. Pitch blue. His cheekbones sharply shaped. Just as I remembered his face hovering over mine, in this moment it is his reflection that hovers over me. I immediately turn around to face him, pressing myself against the sink.

We stare down into each other eyes, as two guys walk out of the bathroom. “What are you doing here?” he asks me, hostile tone of voice. I swallow a large bit of saliva, trying to think of something that wouldn’t be my irregular set of inhales and exhales. You used to be good at this, I tell myself. You are good at this, I repeat inside of my shrinking head.

Suddenly, I smile. “What are _you_ doing here, huh?” and as he opens his mouth to respond, I push myself away from the sink, remembering that I was never the one to hold back. I come a step and a half closer, examining his face. His bold expression somehow now absent; the face that I see is not the face that I kept in my mind. The overwhelming complexity of his features, yes, that matches, but the boldness is gone. “Is that why you leave on the weekends?” 

But before I get to continue, he cuts in. “I leave on the weekends, because my father lives in Copenhagen.”

I smile once more. “Only the guilty explains himself,” I say, as he moves that step further, centimeters separating us. “Are you gay?” I ask him straightforward, looking right into his eyes. What he does next is something I couldn’t possibly ever foresee. He kisses me.

He lands rapidly on my lips; too fast, too harsh, his tongue pushing in. I move away the very second I entirely realize the course of his action, but as I step back, he steps further. I have to punch his chest just to get away from his embrace. “Are you fucking kidding me?” I wipe my lips with an open palm, feeling the stare of some random pass-byers. When I look up to face him, Martin is standing by the sink, breathing heavily. “What the fuck are you doing? Are you out of your mind?” 

Now, for the first time, he smiles. “Who would have thought that you oppose?” he starts to laugh, but there is something off about him. Something off about his sudden display of rudeness. He’s embarrassed.

I spit inside the sink. “Don’t you ever fucking touch me again,” and when I turn around, he grabs my wrist and he pulls me in. He pushes against me fully. “I’ll do whatever I want to do.”

“Oh, really? I don’t think so, you closeted faggot.” I push back, probably not hard enough, because he grabs me in again, moulding my arm between his heavy grip. He’s as tall as Daniel, he hovers over my face, when he pushes me against the sink. “Let me go or tomorrow first thing in the morning your entire crew will know where you like to hang out over the weekends.”

The minute I say it, is the minute I know I shouldn’t have said it. I should have spitted onto his face, then leave. Get Daniel on the way, and get the fuck out of this place. Now. But of course, I had to spill shit out of my mouth. I had to.

Martin starts to laugh, but only a second later. As if the full meaning of my words had just hit him now. “Are you threatening me?”

“I’m just telling you, that if you’re not going to let me go now easily, I’ll make sure everybody knows.” He starts to laugh even more, but I know this maniac sound way too well. It’s a cover up, I laugh like that too.

“And who’s going to believe you? You nasty piece–“ and then I sort of loose it, pushing at him with the entire force of my body. I hit him, the very first moment I have a chance to do so, and I won’t lie, it feels liberating. It feels, as though someone would have just breathed a new life into my lungs. But this hysterical outburst of violence doesn’t last long, somebody holding my back. And when I’m about to get myself out of the person’s wrench, Martin standing in front of me, covering his mouth, the door opens with a loud beam.

It’s Daniel.

It’s Daniel.

I shut my eyes close, feeling as the entire bathroom runs silent, but of course it doesn’t. The music is pumping from the speakers, and people talk loudly on the hallway, and few walk in and out. But the world, the world I’m living in, the interior of it, it falls silent.

I stare at Martin, once my eyelids roll open, I stare at him, and I notice every shade of his expression changing, until he bursts out with a laughter so loud, and so disturbing it makes my stomach sick.

“Oh my fucking god,” he’s laughing. “What is Agger junior doing here?”

I feel the person holding my arms slowly moving back, as if disappearing. It’s the three of us, others advised not to come in, others just walking out. The music still pumping. I look at Daniel, but there is nothing that I can say right now.

I should have left right then. I should have known he would be looking for me after a while. I should have realized a while already passed.

“Wow, you two are worth each other,” he says with mere disgust. His hand once more wiping against the lips. “I can’t wait to let your older brother know. I assume he won’t be too happy about it." 

“You won’t say shit,” I fire back at him, coming closer. “Did you hear me? You won’t say a word.” He smiles now. Wider, and wider as seconds go by.

“Or? You’ll go around people you don’t know, telling them what? That I was here? That you saw me in the bathroom? That I made a move on you? And you didn’t like it? That I’m gay?”

I don’t say anything. “That’s exactly how ridiculous you would sound.”

And when I’m about to jump right at him, I feel Dan’s hands clenching around my shoulders, his chest pressed against my back.

“Yeah, you hold your little boyfriend,” Martin says to him. “Piece of work he is, isn’t he?”

His words tremble inside of my skull, even when he leaves the bathroom. The minute he disappears behind the door, I feel Daniel’s arms releasing the clench, his body immediately moving aside. I guess I’m in shock, because for a while I’m unable to formulate a sentence. I don’t even have the balls to look at him, but I do, finally, look at him, and what I see saddens me, and angers me. Saddens, because his face has an expression of worry I know I won’t be able to console, and angers me, because, well, we’re here because of me.

None of this would have happened if–yeah, I loose track. “I’m sorry,” I tell him, as he is leaning against one of the doors, eyes locked on something untraceable in the air. “I’m sorry,” I repeat again, and when I open my mouth to continue, few guys walk by, and I loose track once more. “I came in, and he was already here, and then, I don’t know, we’ve exchanged some bullshit lines, and he kissed me–“ the second I say it, Dan’s eyes land back at me. “I pushed him away, and yeah, I started saying shit.” Another person walks between us. “I’m so sorry Dan. I didn’t even think you’d come looking for me. I wasn’t thinking at all.”

His stare can burn holes.

“Martin won’t say anything, I promise you–“ that’s when he pushes himself away from the stall, and walks out of the bathroom. I leave right after him.

I call out his name, but he’s not turning around. He walks fast, straight towards the exit. For a brief second I see the French guys occupied with themselves, their drinks, and a new pair of boys. For another brief of a second I think I see Martin on a far end of the bar, but it’s not him.

I call out his name once again when we’re outside, but Daniel doesn’t stop. I run up to him. “Please, stop for a minute,” but he still doesn’t, and what happens next is that we walk arm by arm towards some unspecified direction. He slows down after half an hour, but he doesn’t stop.

“Do you even know where we’re going?” I ask him, but naturally he doesn’t answer. 

Around one I have stopped asking him to slow down, to talk to me, to stop walking, to stop doing anything. He acts as if I’m not there. Around two in the morning we find ourselves back at the central station.

Bright lights of the main hall hurt my eyes, and when we sit down one on of the plastic chair rows, I officially give up.

I last twenty minutes in silence. 

“Dan, it’s going to be better if you say something,” and the moment I let it out, he gives me a look, a stare, of similar intensity as the one he threw at me in the bathroom. “Well, write. You know what I mean.”

But again, he doesn’t. And when he sits his arms drop, and his head doesn’t move, and he just stares at one point.

When it’s past three in the morning, I stand up without a word, and I leave him. I’m starting to feel sick. I need fresh air. I need sleep. I need home.

It’s six in the morning, when I see Daniel walking out on the platform. His leather jacket zipped up, his hoodie on. His long, skinny legs drag him up to the bench. He sits next to me. We look at the people, wordlessly. Our arms don’t brush.

It’s the first time really that I think of Martin. All this time before I would think of Daniel; of his expressions, of his eyes, of his palm skin, and trembling hands. I would think of words; some sure words that would make this situation a tad better. I would think of something that I would be able to say, one day probably, that would make up for everything else I’ve said before. I even thought of the French guys. How they approached us the very first time. How their accent seeped between the syllabi.

Now I think of Martin. The dawn is breaking, and people are walking back and forth on the platform and I think of Martin. I try to recall the day I have met him for the first time, and then every other day I have seen him, came across him, talked to him, faced him. What have I missed? I surely must have missed something, but what was it? Maybe when I saw him outside of Gerrard’s office. Maybe when Gerrard told me he frequently leaves on the weekends. This isn’t it.

There must be something that I have missed. Or there isn’t. Maybe at the heart of it all is just coincidence. A string of events; unrelated, unparalleled maybe, yes, but unrelated.

Exhaustion kicks in an hour before our trains take off. My spine is in pain; my eyes burn. My throat is soar. My lips are dry. 

Martin won’t say anything. I know he won’t say anything. How would he say something? He still must be in Copenhagen. We still have time.

Fifteen minutes to the train take off, I think I have mastered a plan. Once I’m home, I’ll talk to Juergen. I’ll explain everything. I’ll beg him for help. He’ll find a solution. He always finds a solution.

At nine in the morning we sit in the carriage. It’s quite crowded, but nothing too overwhelming. We sit facing each other, but none of us look at the other for longer than a split of a second. A dramatic part of me likes to think that this is it; the end of the story. I fucked it up for myself. A less dramatic part of me likes to think that there must be a solution. A way out of this.

Only when Daniel starts to move in his seat, I remember that he gets off a stop before I do. I lean in over the desk. “Listen to me,” I demand. “Everything is going to be okay. Trust me. You’ll be fine.” 

He looks into my eyes, and it feels like forever until he looks away. Then, he stands up, and he puts his backpack on, pushes the hoodie further, and leaves the set of seats. I follow his every move, until he leaves the carriage.

I start to breath faster. I calm myself down. The train stops with an abrupt halt. I see him outside the window. I see how he marches in front, how he then disappears in the underpass. I wonder if I’ll see him again. 

The very few times that I have shut my eyes, I immediately began to drift away. When I do so now, my head against the backrest, I drift away again. I don’t even feel the train stopping. I just want to sleep. And sleep. And sleep. And sleep.

One of the controllers wakes me up, his Danish ringing in my ears. I get up, I stretch my back. My head is heavy, and my body slow. I have not slept in over twenty-four hours.

It’s eleven in the morning, sun brightly up.

The platform is empty.

The underpass is hundred meters away from where I exit the train. 

I walk slowly, feeling nauseated. Something builds up inside of my stomach.

I take the first step, then the second, then I hear a gradual noise. Fourth. Fifth step down the stairs.

I bump into someone. I look up. 

It’s five of them. Daniel’s brother standing in front, staring at me. He has a sick smile plastered on his lips.

“I think we have some talking to do.”

 

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @Maria see? I've made it in less than two weeks, like I promised! Thank you again for reaching out. Kisses.
> 
> Major, major, major thank you to every single person still reading this.


	18. PART I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone???? Here????
> 
> FIRST OF ALL FORGIVE ME. 
> 
> It's been forever, I know, and I can only hope that there is at least a few of you still wanting to read this piece. Sticking to a time-table ain't my strongest game, but I've put in a lot of work into this chapter (a lot of misery, too, cuz it was taking SO LONG to finish). You don't have to read any previous chapters in order to refresh your memory, because this chapter is something completely different and because it's so large I had to split it into two parts. 
> 
> When I was writing this chapter, two actually, I kept thinking of what I want to tell you here, how I want to explain myself and the decision I've made to present you this angle of the story, but now that I have the opportunity to do so, I'm quite out of words (MAYBE CUZ I USED UP SO MANY TO WRITE THIS DAMN THING). 
> 
> This chapter tells Dan's story and I wrote it in semi-snapshots on purpose, so that you and your imagination can work your absolute magic. 
> 
> Hope I haven't killed the story for you, but then again this is something I hope for every time I post a new chapter. 
> 
>  
> 
> Please review with every ounce of thought you have, as it always makes my sick ass happy.

 

 

 

 

**#1 The Tent Days**

 

 

 

“Nothing you can do about the Danish summer, Dan,” the mother explained when she heard her younger son grunt heavily once again this day.

She looked into his big, bright eyes, almost bursting out at the sight of his terrific sadness. She grabbed him from across, pulling into a tight embrace. Every time she did that, he landed entangled between her legs, tiny arms tugging around her knees. 

The boy was six years old, and every summer he recalled so far was cold, and rainy. Grey turning the sky.

“The reason why I mind the rain,” he started; his voice calm, but utterly serious, “is because I loose in the rain.”

Mother’s response came as a beaming laughter. Her palm stroking his perfectly combed hair. “What do you loose, Daniel?” 

But before the little one had a chance to explain, an older boy walked into the kitchen. 

“He looses all of his tents to me!”

“That is not true!” retorted the younger immediately, pulling himself away from his mother’s legs. They stood facing each other. The older was taller, bigger; his features more defined. He was ten.

“You don’t know how to protect your tents, so you loose all of them. You’re a looser, Daniel. L-o-o-s-e-r.”

“That is not true! Mom, that is not true,” he turned around now, looking at his mother. “Thomas never plays fair. He always cheats.”

“Stop it, you liar. I never cheat. You don’t know how to loose, so you lie.”

“I never lie,” exclaimed the younger, his normally pale cheeks were turning reddish now.

“That’s it,” the mother came between them, squatting down. “You two are brothers, do you understand? You can’t be fighting all the time.”

They turned quiet, suddenly. Their eyes were moving up and down, precisely enough so that the stares didn’t meet. “You can’t be calling somebody a cheater–“ 

“When he–“

“And you,” she turned towards the older. “You can’t be calling somebody a liar.” Her head bobbed between the two of them. “Now, truce. Shake your hands and give each other a hug.”

“I won’t hug him,” said the older, visible dismay marking his expression.

“I won’t hug him either,” repeated the younger, crossing arms over his small chest.

The mother sighed, but her face remained soft and gentle. “A hug, or we stay here until it darkens outside.”

They were both quiet. First, seizing each other, then seizing the clock. They both knew that if they would hug it out now, they would still have good two hours of playing Apaches outdoors––currently their favourite game. 

“Fine,” said the younger, less stubborn. He took the very first step in direction of the older.

“Fine,” repeated the older, right after him. He also took the very first step in direction of the younger. 

“On one, okay?”

“On one.”

And then, they both muttered a countdown, their arms stretching out, chests clashing together on the promised one. The hug itself didn’t last long, but once they tore apart, the air felt lighter; their voices were calmer. There was still an ounce of rivalry between them, the mother noticed as she stood up, observing how they both moved around the counter, pushing against each other. She gave them a deadly stare, but all they did is giggle in response.

“Be back before dinner!” she yelled from the kitchen, as the pair was putting on their shoes in the hallway. “And take Steph with you!” 

When they did come back before dinner, the mother suspected something wasn’t right the minute she heard doors shutting. It was awfully quiet. Too quiet. 

“Oh Lord,” she said, once the boys were inside the kitchen, terrifying looks painted on their faces. Thomas was holding Daniel hands, blood streaming down the arms. There was so much blood; at first she was convinced one of them must have lost all of his ten fingers. “What happened?” she rushed towards them. 

Then, before the two even realized, a synchronized reply came saying “it was me.”

Yet only at the age of 18, he got to tell this story.

_I was six and playing Apaches with Tommas. He got to invade my tent, and I lost. I called him a cheater and he called me a liar. I called him a cheater and he called me a liar. And that went on for about ten minutes, until he turned around and started walking away, shouting into the air, still calling me a liar, and I remember getting so angry that I ran after him, and I tried jumping onto his back, and we_ _’_ _ve gotten into a fight, and we were down to the ground, and there was a bunch of small, but sharp stones next to me, and it was just about how my hand brushed unfortunately against one of the edges. Though, I still fought him through it. All for my invaded tent. Mom almost killed the both of us afterwards._

 

 

 

**#2 Some Call It A Lucky Number**

 

 

 

When Daniel turned seven, he started attending elementary school, and to his mother’s relief, he was a willing, and prominent student. Unlike Thomas, the older brother, who considered school his personal playground rather than an educational institution, Daniel soaked knowledge in with pleasure and ease, exceling at math and languages, moving with the agenda faster than all of his classmates. Stephanie, the middle kid, was a typical social butterfly, charismatic and dynamic, able to befriend even the sorest of an enemy.

The mother wasn’t worried about any of them, appreciating their unique differences, and filling in with laughter, when appreciation has no longer worked. _They’re just kids_ , she would always say whenever a teacher, or more frequently, her husband, drew any negating remarks. Remarks that seemed to be issued with care, yet they usually included a notion of bother. The father was bothered, by what he believed to be his children incapability to perform, achieve, or demonstrate his desires. Therefore Thomas was regarded as foolish for his lack of interest in academic matters; Stephanie was regarded as silly and naive for her love of human interaction, and Daniel was regarded as odd for his inability to successfully socialize. He didn’t make one friend his very first year of school, and only shrugging his shoulders when asked if there wasn’t anybody he’d like to hang out with. Typically, he followed Thomas around, wherever the older would go. But even then, he shied away from conversation, if Thomas was encircled by a large group of friends. At home, however, Daniel changed enormously. He talked, he laughed, he discussed, he fought; he was largely audible. _He’s just shy_ , the mother defended him, whenever she would come across a statement diminishing her youngest child ability to socialize. “ _It takes him a while to get comfortable, but once he does get comfortable_ _…_ _Oh boy.”_

At the age of seven, Daniel began to receive much more of his father’s attention, that was earlier exclusively reserved for Thomas, sometimes Stephanie. The father would take him out to the forest, he would teach him how to navigate between the trees, how to distinguish danger from his own fear. Daniel enjoyed those lessons; more or less. He surely enjoyed the thrill of an adventure, which he associated with going to the woods. He enjoyed the smell of fresh air, the calmness of nature. What he enjoyed less was the tone of command; the seriousness of his father’s voice that would always leave him anticipating. To him, it never felt like they were just spending time together. To him, it felt like his father tried teaching him lessons he wasn’t yet prepared to fully comprehend.

Apart from their forest excursions, Daniel was allowed to attend the weekly kitchen meetings– something he wasn’t allowed to do before the age of seven. _Weekly kitchen meetings_. Or, that is what he liked to call them, mainly because he didn’t know how else to call them. He didn’t understand their purpose, their service. At first, he always thought of them as friendly banters, the ones his mother would sometimes hold with their neighbours. But then, every time they occurred, he was quickly rushed to the living room. He was given the look, the word, the eyebrow rise. Lips clenching, palms up in the authoritative sign of banned entry. That is how he knew, if only subconsciously, that this wasn’t a friendly banter and that he wasn’t welcomed until he suddenly was. 

At first, he stood right next to the kitchen counter, one hand holding the verge, while his older brother was seated by the table. There were other four men, excluding the father. The room smelled of coffee, and there was no music. _“Daniel, son, come sit with us,”_ his father encouraged, but Daniel always nodded his head in a dismissive response.

He enjoyed the counter; he grasped it with strength so bold it made his slim fingers run white. Most of all, he enjoyed the space. It gave him room for observation, but it also gave him protection from figures he sensed somehow a threat. They were all tall, and their voices were low. They talked in manner of seriousness so precisely sketched, that when they laughed, weirdly all at once, Daniel barely felt any radiation. Because usually, when people laughed he felt something radiating–some kind of warmth, some kind of glow. Their laughs were brutally hollow. Empty. As if they were waiting to swallow him all at once.

Daniel didn’t listen to the content of their conversations that much, as what he saw fascinated him to greater extents. After few such meetings, he was able to understand and detect subtle relations connecting the figures. It was simple things, mostly; how they looked at each other, how they smiled, how they nodded their heads, how they talked.

Soon enough, Daniel recognized his father as the one issuing commands with the rest being there to either concede or plead. He talked to the men using that very same tone he used when they both were in the woods; the very same tone his father had reserved for the do’s and don’ts. One thing Daniel didn’t come to completely understand was exactly why the men chose to listen to his commands; he knew why he had to listen to his father commands. He was his son; he figured it was part of the ethical, respectful code they shared, but them? What was the code they have shared?

In order to find out, he realized, he had to neglect the counter. He had to cut the safe play. So, some time later, he took the seat facing his brother. But when that happened, he was eight.

And to put it lightly, eight wasn’t his lucky number.

 

 

 

**#3 Don’t Play That Song**

 

 

 

Out of the entire week, Daniel favoured Saturday’s the most. On a Saturday morning he slept as long as he wished to sleep; he ate whatever he wanted to eat; he listened to the records he waited all week long to listen. Daniel liked the silence of his house on a Saturday morning; the feeling of solitude that allowed him to focus on whatever he wished to focus.

Usually, he was awake while his older brother kept tossing and turning on the opposite bed. On a Saturday like this one, Daniel sat on the edge of his mattress for several minutes with the sheets wrapped around his bony shoulders. He counted to ten, and then got up. 

Stephanie’s room was right in front of theirs, so each time Daniel left their own, he always poked his head in to hers, examining the stage of her sleep. If she was also tossing and turning, he’d start to laugh, first faintly, then with volume. If he felt like having company, on a rare occasion though, he’d shake her arm and pull the sheets. However, that rarely ever happened. On a Saturday like this, he only gave her a quick look of brotherly care, and quickly sneaked down the stairs. 

Silence. Silence was coming through the walls, and he was able to savour its full scope. He went to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and took out orange juice. Being still too short to reach the highest shelves, he gave himself permission to drink straight from the bottle. He sat down by the table, bare feet wiggling above the floor, and he opened his math homework put on hold from the night before. He grabbed the pencil from between the papers, and started figuring out one of the tasks.

Daniel enjoyed numbers, for some reason. He enjoyed the concept of right and wrong; the idea of boundaries, even if abstract. The fact that there was a rule to follow, and an answer to seek; that there was a possibility to always catch it faster, and better, and smoother. He was always oblivious to what others recently started calling a gift, and only when he had lately overheard Ms. Sunne–– lead teacher of the second grade speaking to his mother after class–– was when he understood that maybe there was something a tad unusual about him. _“You could say he is only eight, but Daniel possesses a certain broader comprehension, I’d like to put it that way, that immediately sets him apart from other classmates. The way he grasps knowledge, and asks questions by challenging presented to him theories; how incredibly fast he memorizes. How was he in kindergarten?”_ But he never went to kindergarten. His early childhood was the village, and everything it had to offer. He grew up running alongside his older brother, not having somebody test him for superior brain skills. He liked to observe, yes, that is how he assessed social situations and their possible outcomes. That is how he knew, therefore chose to behave—not because he felt like he had to somehow bound himself. That is how he just _happened_ to be. That’s how he was wired. He learned to read very fast and at a very early age. True again, he had outstanding memory, and was able to link cause-and-effect faster than anybody his own age, when compared. But was that an accurate equation for brilliance?

“What are you doing so early on?” Daniel’s father stomped into the kitchen, his heavy voice spoiling the perfectly shaped string of thoughts Daniel had just running through his mind.

“Math,” he replied, gaze focusing back on the numbers. 

“Interesting. Go wake up your mom, and your siblings too. I’m going to make us some breakfast, and then you, Thomas, and Stephanie are going to help me out today. I have a lot of work.”

“I want pancakes,” Dan said out of the blue, while still gazing onto his homework. “I want pancakes, and I want mom to make them, and I want to finish my homework.”

“If only we all got to have and do things we wanted to have and do, huh?”

“But today is Satu––”

“I don’t care what day it is today, Daniel. I’m telling you what you need to do, and that is exactly what you’re going to do. Why do you always have to argue?” 

“Because I can.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Because I can argue. I can argue anything you’ve got to say. The same way you can––”

“Shut your mouth, will you? You’re showing nothing, but disrespect. Go upstairs and do what I asked you to do.”

And when Daniel’s mouth closed, deciding to spare the very last line for more suitable occasion, the father barked, “Now.” 

But he never shouted. His father never shouted. What he did instead is he carried fury and disdain through such slow pronunciation, that Daniel was able to feel his hostility lingering in the air long after he finished speaking. The most unpleasant part was that he spoke in such manner every day, usually just varying the volume and the kind of ill he wished to disclose, and no matter how much Daniel disliked his father’s complying tactics, they have always worked. 

Therefore first, he went to wake up Stephanie, but when he entered her room, she was already up and stretching. Ever since she started practicing gymnastics, her morning routine consisted of the same scheme. 

“Come downstairs when you finish. Dad is making breakfast,” his voice sounded flat.

“Sure,” she answered, but Daniel closed the door before Stephanie had a chance to add anything else.

Tommas was next, but with him Daniel didn’t even bother to speak since years of practice taught him that it is best to execute the wake up through more physical procedures. Without hesitation, he pulled the covers right until the bottom of the bed, keeping them strong against Tom’s wiggling legs.

“I promise you right now, you little shit, I’ll kill you,” his voice hoarse and muffled, face pressed against the pillow. “I’ll skin you. I’ll skin you and I’ll make a carpet out of you.” 

Daniel started to laugh.

“Carpet. Do you want to be a carpet?”

Despite a seemingly serious threat, he continued laughing. 

“Fine, Jesus, fine. I’m up.”

The minute he said it, Daniel let go of the duvet and immediately turned around in order to leave their shared bedroom. He didn’t care if his brother jumped under the covers right after. According to Dan’s understanding of what his father have said, Daniel wasn’t supposed to keep Tom awake, he was just supposed to wake him up. Task completed. 

His parent’s bedroom was a mystery on its own that is why he always approached it with a sure degree of delicacy. He knocked first, and only when he heard his mother humming was when he pushed the door open.

It was utterly dark out there.

“Mom?”

An answer didn’t come.

“Mom?”

He heard her steady breath.

“Maybe I can switch on the lights?” he offered. “Better. I can roll up the shutters.”

Her exhales were becoming louder. “Come here,” she said finally, and so he did. He sat on the verge of her bed’s side, vision slowly getting used to the darkness. His mother’s hand trailed up his arm, only to surely grasp his shoulder.

“What time is it?” she asked. 

“Around eight, mom.”

“Why are you up so early, Danny?”

“Don’t know, mom. I like being up early. It’s so quiet.”

She sighed heavily, before moving up and switching the light at her nightstand. Then she groaned, covering her eyes, when the light sparked up the room. Now that Daniel could study her face better, he noticed the dark, tired bruises under her eyes. Dry lips. Prominent, almost sticking out cheekbones.

“Mom,” he started, not really knowing whether he should proceed. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Yes, darling. I’m just very tired.”

Daniel nodded his head with an attempt to seem understanding, however, deep inside, he felt like he didn’t understand much. At least, not in a reasonable manner. His mother has been getting a lot of rest lately. Frankly speaking, ever since he could remember she was always sneaking for a nap, or more often, spending long hours in bed. Sometimes it was days. Sometimes, he felt as if it was weeks. It became such a regular thing to occur; that he genuinely believed it was what all moms have been doing. Spending weeks in bed. Not moving. Only when he went to school and had an opportunity to listen to a plentiful of his classmates stories––playing with moms, homeworking with moms, cooking with moms, watching movies with moms––that he realized maybe his case was an oddity.

He often asked Tommas; “ _is mom all right?”_ But Tommas would only shrug his shoulders, accompany that movement with a confident head nod. “ _You know what dad says.”_ But Daniel didn’t know what dad has been saying. “ _She has her weird moods, but then she’s back to being normal again.”_

Yet, Daniel still didn’t understand. What was normal? And who was in right to proclaim normalcy? Even back then, without knowing how the word normal was going to shape his future life, he didn’t like its sound. He didn’t like the division it has made. As the behaviour opposite to what normal stood for, was wrong. When in reality he felt, as maybe, _maybe,_ it was just different. 

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

She started to laugh then, genuinely, blissfully, with some kind of warmth illuminating her face.

“Why are you laughing?” he asked defensively, a look of honest confusion painted on his face.

“I’m not laughing at _you_ , sweetheart,” she explained, “you’re just––I love you, you know that?”

He smiled sheepishly, turning his eyes away. “I know, mom. I know." 

“Want to listen to some records?”

“Now?”

“Sure, why not? It’s a Saturday morning. What else do we have to do?”

“But dad wanted me to––“

“Come on, Dan. Dad can wait.”

It was then that she suddenly moved herself up, getting out of the sheets. First, she rolled up the shutters, allowing bright and sharp rays of sun inside the bedroom. Then, she walked towards a long, medium-sized cabinet. She pulled the turntable closer to the verge, then bent and reached for a vinyl.

“I don’t know if that works,” Daniel begun, seeing as his mother struggled with the setup. “CD’s are downstairs, mom. We can pick something there.”

“Aretha Franklin must be listened on vinyl.”

As she rummaged through a box of records, Daniel kept staring at his mother’s back. There was something undoubtedly odd about her act, and he quite couldn’t put a finger on it. Essentially, she was a good-hearted, soft, radiant person, so her uplifted behaviour came as no surprise to him. It was usually the suddenness of the switch that the youngest found so striking. As if she tried her golden best to abandon what was holding her down so roughly. Sometimes she succeeded, and sometimes she didn’t. 

“Mom,“ Daniel urged, when minutes later she was still pressed against the cabinet, running through the stack of copies. 

“I know it was here,” she muttered.

“Mom, the setup is not connected. That’s it. That’s why it’s not working.”

“I know it was––" 

“What is going on here?”

Daniel turned around immediately, his father standing tall and straight in the doorway. 

“Oh hi,” the mother said, giving him a brief, surprised look, then resuming her frantic search. 

“Daniel,” his voice was low and raspy. “Leave the room.”

What Daniel did instead was that he got up off the verge, and slowly walked in direction of the cabinet. When he was six, he chose to stand entangled between her mom’s legs, having her hands on his arms, feeling secured and guided. Now, the tone of his father’s command combined with somewhat absurd need to secure and guide her in return was what made him stand in front of her. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he sounded determined. “I came to wake mom up, and I’ll be leaving only if she leaves with me.” 

His father started to laugh. “Enough, Daniel. I’ve had enough of you today.”

But Dan remained motionless, his eyes scrutinizing. “Daniel,” he heard his mom’s gentle voice. Then, she squatted next to him, turning him by his shoulders. “Please, leave the room, darling. Go downstairs and pick out some CD’s. It can be Aretha, too. I changed my mind.”

“No,” he quickly opposed. 

“Can you do this for me? Can you leave the room? Make sure Tom has left his bed, okay? But don’t get in a fight with him. And ask Steph, if you need help. Please go.” 

Daniel searched for something on her face; some sure sign, a signal. But there wasn’t much he could hold on to, so he left. Reluctantly, but he left.

He shut the door, and the second he looked up, he saw Tommas standing in the doorway of their room. His blonde hair was messy, and his eyes were swollen. He looked grumpy, probably a bit less grumpy than during the week though.

“Are you okay?” Tom asked, voice serious and voided of that previous, however threatening, jokery. 

“Yes,” Daniel answered, still not moving from the door.

“Don’t worry, Danny. Mom is fine. He just wants to talk to her. That’s it.”

Dan shrugged his shoulders.

“Come on,” Tom stretched out his hand, nagging. “Come here, you little shit.” 

Finally, Daniel gave in with a smile. He started to walk then, and when walking past his older brother, he said with confidence, all sly. “I’m almost as tall as you are, Tom.” 

“Yeah sure, liar,” Tom retorted, catching up to walk next to Dan. “I can still spit on your head without you knowing––“

“Hey! You two! What are you doing?” 

They both turned their heads, Stephanie was standing in her doorway. “Up to no good,” Tom replied cheerfully, as him and Daniel stood on top of the stairs.

“Wait, I’m coming with you.”

 

 

 

**#4 All Roads Lead Back To…**

 

 

 

Daniel was fifteen the first time he allowed himself to visit the ruins of the house. 

He sat on the ground, spikes of tall grass prickling his bare calves. He then pulled his knees up till chest, resting his chin on top, arms hugging tightly around the thighs. Despite it being a warm afternoon in the middle of July, Daniel felt cold chills running down his spine, a sudden clench of familiar pain tightening his chest. He closed his eyes, breathing out in practiced calmness. Spasms tormented him for years now, nowadays coming mostly in unexpected timing, appearing without enough of frequency for Daniel to establish a pattern. His calculated, allegedly brilliant mind, couldn’t find a solution to bear with trauma–a word he only recently permitted himself to use– so, he let it be. 

He well remembered the very first time he saw the house. It had two floors, a big porch, and was painted in white and blue. Daniel was still eight back then, enjoying a late August afternoon of running alongside the verge of the forest. He took some wrong turns, lost count, and he got lost. Ever since Tommas found himself a new group of friends, and quickly became what he liked to call a leader of it, Daniel was left alone, spending days in vast solitude. 

But the sky was pitch blue, brightly light rays of sun coming down through the crowns of trees, and so he wasn’t afraid. For somebody, whom others liked to call fragile, reserved and ghost-like Daniel was rarely afraid. One thing his father endlessly repeated was that fear lived only inside of his mind; that we were afraid of what we didn’t know, and so to liberate ourselves we had one thing to do–face it; a mantra so obvious in its simplicity, yet arduous in execution.

When Daniel managed to break free from the woods, the house was the first thing he saw. In between, there was a broad, uneven patch of grass. Some meters it stood tall until his shoulders, and as he crossed through other meters it funnily tingled his ankles. Once he found himself in front of the porch, Daniel noticed that the doors were encouragingly open, that there was music coming out, busy noises, that the space was surely occupied.

He looked back behind his arm, at the unknown darkness of the forest, and decided it wasn’t the time to face its crooks, corners and mysteries. It wasn’t the time to go home. However, before he made that first step towards the stairs, a rather short person appeared in the doorway. It was a man; well into his thirties. Daniel was guessing. 

“Hello?” he said, rather, he asked. 

“Hello,” Daniel replied after a moment of embarrassing silence.

“Are you lost?”

“No,” Dan answered quickly. “Yes,” corrected himself even quicker.

He saw the man smiling. Then, he took few steps towards the verge of the porch, standing still on top of the stairs. “What’s your name? My name is Ross. We just moved in here two months ago.” 

Daniel perfectly knew what he ought to say. He knew it was polite to adorn his words with a small smile, to never just shake his head, to never just stare, but as the overwhelming nature of social situation pressed on to him, he fell back to what secured him the most–a shut down.

Ross came down the stairs, he sat on the last step, just meters away from Daniel. As if he didn’t dare to come closer. “Are you okay? Do you need help?”

When he was spending time with Tommas, he never had to speak first. Tommas was the one initiating conversations, filling them with his bluntness, sometimes a word too much. Tommas guided him through the introductory difficulties, and when Dan felt at ease, when comfort spoiled him, that was when he started talking. When he actually loved to interact.

He looked back again, staring at the trees. Then, he moved his head to look at Ross. “My name is Daniel. I was just walking down the first line of trees, and somehow–“ he stopped, miscalculating his breath attempts. He swallowed loudly. “I was lost.”

“It’s fine,” Ross said in a gentle tone, and when he opened his mouth to continue, Daniel interrupted.

“I’m sorry. I’m not good at talking with people. I don’t like to talk to people.”

It was silent for a moment, until Ross started to laugh in a heartfelt, pleasant tone. “Don’t worry,” he told Daniel with a smile, when that wave of laughter came to an end. “Actually, I’m also not a big fan of talking to people. There are few that I enjoy talking to, of course, but the rest? Na-huh. Not my talent.” 

Dan smiled. 

“Let me help getting you safely back home, all right?” 

The young one nodded his head. “Thank you,” he said finally, still not moving an inch away from his spot.

“I’ll get my jacket and then off we go.” 

Daniel nodded his head again, this time adding a smile. When Ross disappeared behind the doors, however still keeping them ajar, Dan realized it was his first time meeting a complete stranger. Both the beauty and the trap of living in a village was that everybody knew each other; that no face remained unfamiliar; no story, whether true or false, could stay untold. Dan’s piercing memory immediately categorized Ross as somebody he didn’t know, somebody he had never seen before. Ross had brown, big eyes; a gentle voice. Voice almost as gentle as his mom’s voice, only with a deeper notch. Stronger. Ross wasn’t as tall as Daniel’s father, but still definitely taller than Dan. He didn’t have blonde hair; he was wearing a t-shirt instead of checkered, short-sleeved shirts his father favoured so much. Daniel never liked the check; the pattern irritated his already set aesthetics. 

Ross came down few minutes later, and then in what felt like an agreed silence, they started walking back towards the forest. Dan was going first, and Ross right after him. After a while, the man asked. “How come you know your way around here so well?”

It took Daniel a while to answer. “My dad taught me,” he said matter-of-factly. “Normally, I don’t get lost. Must have missed my count.”

“Your count?”

“I have a system.” 

“A system of?”

“Counting and recognizing the trees. I group them.”

“Oh, wow, okay.”

“It’s easier to navigate between them that way.”

“That’s clever.” 

“Maybe. Yes. I guess so.” 

“So how does the system work?”

Dan inhaled deeply. “Every tree has a unique detail.” He took a break. “I memorize them.”

“You memorize every detail?”

“Yes. Then I group them by their unique differences. Then I count them. Now we’re probably ten trees away from the large bottom ones, and after we reach that spot, it takes about ten minutes to leave the forest. My dad doesn’t like this system.”

“Why? I think it’s quite inventive.”

“He wants me to use the four cardinal points.”

“And you don’t like that?”

“I just like to do things my own way.”

When Daniel turned his head to look at Ross, he saw him shaking his head with a bright, large smile. “This system has a flaw, though. It works only if we’re in a small forest.”

“The bigger the sample, the more difficult to memorize.”

“Yes,” Daniel agreed, also with a smile. “Maybe memorizing wouldn’t be the problem, but time would. Not enough time, I mean.”

Ross was laughing. “How old are you again, kid?” 

“Eight.” 

“Well, that’s something.”

“Really?” Dan said with childish hopefulness, the one that Ross didn’t trace in his previous speech. “My twelve year old brother says he can still spit on my head.”

Ross laughed heavily once more. “Older brothers. That’s their thing.”

Daniel hummed in response, turning his gaze away from the older man, looking ahead. Just as he said previously, after they reached the large bottom trees, it took them approximately ten minutes to leave the forest.

The sun was setting, giving off a pastel orange split on the sky. It was still warm, but wind started to blow in sharp, hollow tunes; easy to tell that it was undoubtedly the end of summer.

“Where do we take it from now?” Ross asked, once they have stepped on to the trodden path.

“Thank you for your help. I know how to get home from here.”

“You knew how to get home from the very beginning. You didn’t even need my help.”

Dan smiled. “Do you know how to get back?”

Ross looked behind his shoulder, moving his head to the sides. “More or less, I think?”

“I have a better idea. You can walk home with me, and then my father will drive you back.” 

“That’s unnecessary, really. I don’t want to make myself a problem.”

“But that’s not a problem! Besides, it will get darker and darker from now on.”

Ross hesitated. “I will walk you home, and then we will see about the drive, okay?”

“Okay,” Daniel agreed.

He didn’t know it back then, but his current, fifteen year old self looked back at that moment and considered it a mistake. A mistake that, if given a power to erase it, Daniel would mark it forever away from the pages of his life’s history. A mistake that not only ruined it all, but a mistake that started it all. That twisted and fouled his life. When he looked back on this day, when he remembered the white and blue house, he wondered why didn’t he just walk away. Why didn’t he step back? He blamed many things in the course of those unfortunate events, but ultimately he became to blame himself. If he didn’t miscount the trees, if his so-called gifted brain didn’t fail him this one time, then Ross would have still been here. Charlie would have still been here. His mom would have still been here. 

Now, when Daniel closed his eyes again, he saw his mother sitting on the last step of the stairs leading to the porch of their house. Once she saw him walking side by side with Ross she immediately stood up, an expression of concern distinguishable on her face. 

“Good God, Daniel!” her arms sprung apart the moment the youngest darted in her direction, falling into a solid embrace. “I was so worried about you! Where did you go?” 

Almost as if ashamed by his sudden arrival of emotions, Daniel stepped away; turning his head to look at Ross, then again back at his mom. “I got lost. Don’t know how. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, darling. I was just very worried. Dad was worried too. I was already thinking a bunch of horrible thoughts.” 

Ross spoke up. “He told me he miscalculated his count.” The mother turned her head to look at Ross, all of a sudden acknowledging his presence. 

She stood up in an instant, reaching out to shake his hand. “Of course he said so. I’m Daniel’s mom.”

“Figured that. My name is Ross. We just moved in to the house–uhm–number 16f?“

It took her a moment to realize, “Oh, yes, yes. I’ve heard about you! You moved in to the house behind the forest.” 

Ross kept nodding his head, still a small smile on his lips. “That is true. I really need to get used to how fast the news spreads around here.”

She laughed. “Yes, unfortunately,” then, after a short break, she added, “Beautiful, old property. How are you liking it there?”

“All good. We still haven’t gotten our car back from Aarhus, which makes it quite problematic to move any further than the village. It is also the reason why it has taken me longer than necessary to get Daniel back home. Would be much faster with a car.”

“It wouldn’t be,” Daniel argued in his notorious matter-of-factly tone. “The car has to go around the–“

“Daniel,” she interrupted, glaring at the youngest, then turning her head to smile apologetically at Ross. 

“I’m just saying,” he shrugged his shoulders, refraining from further explanation.

“I’m sorry,” the mother mouthed, much to Ross’s amusement. “His detailed approach can get a bit overwhelming sometimes.”

“Not at all,” Ross shook his head. “I think it’s quite brilliant. Very sharp, at least.”

The mother smiled. “Can’t thank you enough for finding him and bringing him home.”

“No need to thank me, honestly. He would have found his way back without my help anyway. Truth be told, I didn’t even help.” 

And as the mother was about to retort, doors in the back have opened with a bang, and Daniel’s father stepped out. A brisk, but vague smile was pinned to his lips; eyes searching and scanning, posture straight as ever. Without a welcoming word, he walked down the stairs to stand next to Daniel’s mother, and only then he straightened his hand to grasp Ross’s–a firm clench, a stiff gaze. Once placed arm-to-arm next to his wife, the contrast was immediately apparent. There was a beaming quality about Daniel’s mother that spoke through to people in an enchanting, offhand way; a quality that the father wished to posses, yet was never granted so. Even his raspy, hypnotizing voice–the one that Dan associated with nothing, but a ruthless command–couldn’t do, what one of her smiles could. 

“Pleasure to meet you,” the father continued after the handshake. “Heard a lot about you two.”

Daniel’s head rushed to the side, observing Ross’s reaction steadily. He saw him smiling with the same amount of friendliness as before, but something stroke oddly. He seemed to be surprised, somehow taken aback. It was the first time today that Daniel noticed him taking an evident moment longer to response. 

“Pleasure to meet you, too,” Ross answered at last. “And just like I said before, the news here travels a bit too fast.”

“Well, yes,” he tilted his head to the side for a moment. “But we are a small community, and it’s been years since somebody actually lived in that house. Can’t help, but wonder, you know?”

Ross laughed then, but it was a stinging laugh. Razor-sharp. He pursed his lips right after, looking to the sides, before he collected himself enough to respond. “My advice is never to wonder too much.” 

And what was once adorning Daniel’s father face–something between a genuine smile, and its mock-up–has now disappeared. He swallowed, opening his mouth to surely disagree.

“I miscounted the trees, like you once told me I would,” Daniel offered himself on a silver plate. He saw what was coming, and put a stop to it. Or, least, tried putting a stop to it. Ross accounted now for a friend; a term Daniel hasn’t identified anybody with, and he didn’t want whatever influenced his father to ruin what he hoped could be his first, solemnly built friendship. 

Did it help? Briefly. The father looked down, as if only now recognizing Daniel’s presence between the three of them. He smiled with a corner of his lips; a smile of seconds only, so quick it couldn’t possibly ever reach his eyes. On a side note, none of his father’s smiles ever reached his eyes. 

“We’ll talk about it later. Go home now,” there it was–a command.

Daniel turned his head, looking at Ross. He smiled, trying to think of words that would have best fitted into this situation. _Thank you for listening to what I had to say._ He didn’t say it, of course. Expectant pairs of eyes made his throat parch; his usually busy mind suddenly empty and vast. Instead, he waved his hand in an awkward fashion, smiled looking once up and once down, and quickly muttered a goodbye, after which he took off. 

Another mistake, noticed his fifteen-year-old self. He should have never left. He should have stayed there; he should have made sure that his father doesn’t actually agree upon the mother’s offer to drive Ross back home. Yes, Ross could have suffered a mishap between the trees, possibly, but in a long run, maybe that would have saved his life. Charlie’s life, too. Maybe it was all too long to save his mother’s; the damage has been already done by then, his fifteen-year-old self knew better today, but them two? They could have lived; if it wasn’t for him; if it wasn’t for his tedious inability to stay away. They could have lived.

After that August afternoon, everything started to spin.

It began with the father sitting Dan down after he came back from the drive; decisively stating that Daniel is to never see that man again. _“You will not go there. Ever. Do you understand?”_ Surely, he did understand. Maybe he didn’t know exactly why was he demanded to never show up at the house behind the forest; the link over there not connecting just yet, but he did show up. Multiple times.

The end of August Daniel spent calculating how to miscalculate his count again, so he could find an easy, seemingly non-suspicious way to reach the house. Once he finally did, he came across Ross sitting on top of the stairs, reading. It was an early, Saturday afternoon. 

“Oh, hello you,” Ross greeted Dan with a wide smile, when he noticed him standing down by the stairs, staring speechlessly. “Are you lost again?” 

Dan shrugged his shoulders. “Not really. No.”

“Do your parents know that you’re here? I’m assuming they wouldn’t like to have you hanging around the forest on your own.” 

“But we’re not in the forest,” Daniel pointed. “We’re behind the forest. The house behind the forest.”

Ross shook his head. “Jesus, kid. Are all eight year olds like you?”

Daniel shrugged his shoulders once more. “Maybe.”

“Maybe not,” Ross stood up. “Come on in. You’ll meet Charlie. He’s obsessed with patterns, too.”

And that is, in short, how Daniel got to meet Charlie.

Charlie was Danish of British descent, hence the off-sounding name. To Daniel, at least, and although his mother always advised him to leave slightly bugging him questions for later, the minute Charlie introduced himself, Dan couldn’t help, but frown. “Your name,” he said. “It’s weird.” 

Charlie laughed, also in that sharp, piercing manner, which by now Dan associated with Ross’s laughter only. “My mom was British. But just so you know, Daniel isn’t exactly of Danish origin.”

The little one frowned again. “Yes, but Daniel is a universal name.”

Charlie turned to look at Ross, eyebrows up in an expression of sudden surprise. He mouthed inaudibly, “Who did you bring to this house?”

“For your information,” Daniel continued, to his own much disbelief. “Daniel means ‘God is my judge’.”

“Really?” Charlie crossed arms over his chest. “Did the priest send you?”

“Charlie, come on,” Ross broke in, rolling his eyes. “I told you about Daniel.”

“Are you not religious?” Daniel asked out of the blue, targeting Charlie with scrutiny. 

“Are _you?"_  he fired back, and when Dan closed his mouth to re-think available answer options, Charlie smiled with a corner of his lips. “There. I got you, you ‘God is my judge’ kiddo.”

And that is, again in short, how Daniel found himself another friend.

Turned out, Charlie was to take the position of a math teacher in a high school a village away; he recently graduated with another science degree and wanted to go back to Aarhus to pursue a certain researching method at the University, but as he added with a sigh, needed a break from the city. He was supposed to start teaching mid-September, but him and Ross have moved in here two months early to properly settle in. As mentioned by Ross, the house needed plenty of renovation, and they wanted to finish it all before winter came along. 

Certainly, there was a bunch of things unrelated to each other that somehow happened to drew Daniel closer to the house **;** such as it always being pleasantly loud despite Dan’s preference for silence, crowded with various art belongings (courtesy of Ross) and mathematical brainteasers (courtesy of Charlie), at least three chessboards with a game on ( _I’m striving to be something like a child chess prodigy without, of course, being a child,_ Charlie explained once)––but what always made Daniel come back for more was the feeling of inclusivity. His home, for instance, surely made him feel somewhat inclusive; he lived there, after all, his parents lived there, his siblings lived there. There was no doubt about where his initial place was, but both Charlie and Ross opened a new world for him. A world in which he could ask as many questions as he wished to ask and nobody brushed him off; a world where there always were answers, and it wasn’t so wrong if those answers prompted more questions; a world where there were no commands, but endless discussions, and laughter. A simple world; much simpler than the one he happened to be assigned to.

Beginning of October, the father found out about Daniel’s frequent visits to the white and blue house. How? Dan didn’t know. He was always so careful, always so invisible; vague with descriptions of his extra-curricular activities. Never too excited about anything he brought home; especially not additional math tasks that Charlie had been giving him. Something must have failed, although years later Daniel figured his father could have been bluffing then. 

It was also the first time he witnessed him shouting. Sound so rough and explicit, Daniel felt himself trembling with fear. He stood leaning against the kitchen counter, pushing his back against one of the handles with the knob painfully nudging between his shoulder blades. There was one question played on repeat, _what did I tell you about going there?_ But Daniel found himself incapable of answering. He was under such torturous inquiry, even days later that same sentence kept banging inside his skull. The father gave up after twenty minutes, and when he was walking away, going upstairs, he stopped for a second, turned his head, and said with disdain, “Those people are nasty.”

Weeks after, when Daniel finally felt secure enough to pay the duo one of his unannounced visits, he was actively searching for signs of nasty. He began inspecting within the house; yes, sometimes it was quite messy, but that was because Ross liked to store most of his paintings downstairs and he rarely bothered himself with putting art supplies in order, however, apart from the regular clutter nothing too extra-ordinary had emerged. Next, he inspected the fridge looking for something like human eyeballs or dog’s ears, but it was stuffed mostly with yogurts, vegetables, and pre-packed ham. Strange diet, Daniel thought at first, but then realized Thomas lived off mostly cereal. As his inspection went on, he found out that none of them particularly enjoyed watching television, and they both agreed their favourite character from The Lion King was Zazu. _Zazu?_ He stood perplexed for a couple of minutes, eventually reducing his reaction to a nod and a shrug. Nothing nasty with picking Zazu, he told himself. “ _Are you okay, kiddo?”_ Charlie asked another time, when he caught Daniel sitting stiffly on the sofa, as opposed to him usually lying sprawled like a blob of meat with a book centimeter away from his face, but Dan didn’t answer. 

“Thomas,” he called his brother later in the afternoon, when they were sitting in their bedroom, both by their respective sides. Thomas was reading a magazine, frantically flipping the pages, clearly occupied with his research. “Thomas,” Dan repeated.

“What,” the twelve year old replied, sounding utterly uninterested.

“Why would you say somebody is nasty?” Daniel put aside his notebook and a pen, staring expectantly at his older brother.

“Hm?” eyes fixed on one of the pages now.

“I asked why would you say somebody is nasty?”

Thomas finally looked up. “I don’t know. Why are you asking?”

“Just asking,” he shrugged his shoulders. 

“I mean, it can be many things, no? When you don’t shower for days in a row?”

“Okay. That is obvious,” Dan rolled his eyes. “You sometimes don’t shower for days in a row. Can I call you nasty, too?” The young one bared his teeth in a cheerful smile.

“Shut up,” Tom threw his pillow across the room, but before it managed to sloppily hit Daniel in the face, the younger leaned in and caught it. “I shower every day.”

“So?” Dan insisted. “Other reasons?”

“I’m busy now, can’t you see?”

“What are you reading?”

“A magazine.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Shut up, I swear. You’re starting to be so annoying. Get on with your boring math.” 

“So, you wouldn’t say I’m nasty?”

Tom threw his head with irritation. “No. I wouldn’t. You piss me off and you’re weird and you have literally zero friends–“

“I have friends,” Dan cut him off, lips pursing.

“Ha,” Tom snickered. “Sure. Who? Your imaginary friends?”

Obviously, he couldn’t tell him the truth. It was too risky; nobody could be trusted. Compelled by greater cause, Daniel chose to restrain himself from slipping into an argument. He crossed arms over his chest, head tilted to the side; opted for a glare.

“Exactly,” the older summed up Daniel’s silence, proceeding with his read. After a while though, Thomas raised his head, eyebrows furrowing. “Have somebody done something to you?”

Daniel grimaced in confusion. “No. Why?”

“Cause maybe that’s why you’re asking. Somebody did something nasty to you and you’re not sure if it’s nasty or not?” 

Daniel grimaced once more. “What you just said makes no sense. Don’t you think I can tell bad from good?”

“Don’t know, Danny. Like I said, you’re a weird kid. But if you have somebody trying to flush your head in the school’s toilette, you tell me, okay?” 

Dan only rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry. I can handle anything.” 

His truly confident response made Thomas let out a massive cackle. “Danny, look in the mirror. You’re all bones. A fly has better chances with you.”

With calmness and grace, Daniel put his things aside. He grabbed that very same pillow Tom threw at him minutes before, and having run across the room screaming ‘pillow murder’, he jumped at his brother with every ounce of force he had in him. It seemed like a real tumble, at first, but then they were crying out in spasms of laughter, rolling through the bed, until both fell down to the floor with a loud thump, exhaling breathlessly. 

He never exactly determined then what was so nasty about Ross and Charlie, despite having searched for evidence ever since he heard his father’s comment. In fact, the more he examined the pair, the more he grew fonder of their company. Many times, Daniel spotted the two men being affectionate with each other in ways his father and mother never were; not in terms of grand gestures, they weren’t like that. It was all so subtle, so hidden, that if not Daniel’s penchant for observation, he probably would have never noticed. After all, living in a house where two people were united in supposed love without sharing so much as a trace of kindness; Daniel craved being around those for whom kindness wasn’t all extravaganza, rather, something essential.

He learned a lot from them two, and it was the kind of knowledge that would stay imprinted in his memory, perhaps, forever. Regardless of what forever truly meant. Ross taught him the principles of art; spanning from styles to centuries, eventually focusing on the personal aspect of interpretation. Telling Daniel that it isn’t about the collections, the millions you can possibly lay out, the type of brush you end up recognizing on the canvas. He told him; search for art that speaks to you, and allows you to speak too; search for art that touches the crux of your being; the awful and the prime. Often, Dan would sit astounded, listening carefully to every word that has left Ross’s mouth, and although Ross claimed himself not big on talking, Daniel found him a charismatic lecturer. Charlie, on the other hand, was mindful with words. Specific. His humour was sharp, quite poignant, but he was always patient; whether with clarifying certain chess strategies, for hours, or trying to convince Daniel to develop more distinct ‘tree samples’ in order to better his navigating patterns. Charlie also taught him how to flawlessly boil an egg; ranging from a runny yolk to hard-boiled. _“Aren’t I an exquisite cook?”_ he asked Ross and Dan with genuine pride, whenever he mastered the simplest of cooking activities, to which Ross typically reacted with a helpless nod, telling Daniel with a smirk, _“It’s better not to go against his delusions.”_ Most of all though, they accepted him as he was, and through that acceptance he began to believe that he was _just_ good enough; a belief, that sadly, eroded as he grew up.

Back then; in the float of days filled with routine and an occasional blast, it didn’t seem like the world he came to know was about to collapse.

Now, his fifteen-year-old self saw every piece of the puzzle being stripped away. He could easily link certain events and say _this, here, this have led to that_ , but then again, the more he tried to link them, pointing out a handful of his personal mistakes, the more he couldn’t precisely remember, _did that actually happen? I could have imagined that._ His memory was able to arrive to certain ground points, but couldn’t be able to move past them, having entirely erased some of the things that occurred. Then again, some of the memories he believed he shut off, sooner or later came haunting him in most unexpected moments. Dinner, bath time, classes. Nightmares were his aching enemy, although not as much now, as when he was just nine or ten. Tantrums were gone too, but as the palpable signs of trauma faded away, he was left with something bigger–something size of a bottomless pit, wreckage he carried wherever he went; _himself._

It was the usual weekly kitchen meeting. He sat next to Thomas, facing Johaus; one of the three other men always present. Normally, Daniel pretended to be interested in discussed matters: bothersome neighbours and their disputes, unwieldy farms, impoverished households. By now, he remembered names of people brought up during their talks; he could have correctly guessed their faces if having a chance, but still, being somehow personally invested in those issues haven’t prompted any engagement from his side. One time, his father told him, “ _You’re just a kid now, but once you grow up, you will understand that this place is all we have. Those are your people. This is your community. You need to take care of it. You need to protect it. The sooner you learn, the better._ ” He made it sound as if there was no other life apart from the village, when Daniel well knew by then that there was. 

The meetings barely ever lasted two hours; therefore Daniel didn’t find it much too demanding to just mindlessly sit through the babble. However, Thomas was all wiggle and impatience. He couldn’t stand not having a possibility to formulate his opinion, rule with his ideas. Most of the time, he was just bored. Sometimes, Dan would kick his leg underneath the table to make his irritating twitch stop. Afterwards, Tom would complain to Daniel about how dull the whole thing was, and if maybe for once they could consider talking about something else. When Dan asked him what was that he wanted to talk about, his older brother just shrugged his shoulders and told him about this kid from grade above that pissed the living shit out of him.

“I don’t know if any of you heard, but we have a new math teacher,” Johaus started towards the end of the meeting, but in that moment Daniel still wasn’t paying enough attention. Instead, he was staring at the oval, flat face of the man in front, and despite his mouth constantly moving, Dan couldn’t force himself to attentively listen. “Yes, Charlie Hessen.”

His back suddenly straightened, head tilted. Daniel noticed his father side-eyeing him in that very same moment, when Johaus Lviv continued to talk, “I’m aware we usually don’t discuss personal concerns, but he teaches my oldest son math and I’ve heard some disturbing stuff.”

“Such as?” the father asked, his voice calm and collected.

“Rumour has it he lives with another man,” and when he dropped that line, the two others shifted uneasily in their chairs, grunting and murmuring incoherently. 

“What?” Thomas suddenly asked, but everybody decided to ignore him.

“He does, in fact, live with another man,” the father confirmed, restraining from meeting Dan’s gaze. “Met the other one at the end of August. He brought Daniel home, when he got lost in the forest. I agreed to drive him back to the house. We started talking. He referred to Charlie Hessen as his _partner––_ ”

Then, the rest burst out in a loud, united sound of disapproval that was briefly interrupted by Thomas and his belated in understanding question. Only Daniel remained silent with both of his hands now underneath the table, palms maniacally clenching the knees.

“Is he a good teacher?” the father asked Johaus directly, correctly assuming he was the only one here with a child being taught by Hessen. 

“Hell if I know,” he responded dismissively. “Listen, I love my kid, but he’s kind of a dumbass. Math especially. The teacher could be Einstein himself and wouldn’t teach him a damn thing. But a _faggot?_ They have no shame nowadays. Isn’t AIDS eating them up?” 

Two others started to laugh, but Daniel’s father stayed speechless. Only Tom leaned in and asked, “what’s AIDS?” but Daniel blatantly ignored his question.

“What do you suggest we do? Because like you said, this is a personal concern.”

“I don’t know, really. I don’t,” Johaus began. “But I talked to some other parents. Everybody is outraged. And now you tell me they have the decency to be open about this? It makes me sick.”

“I do not find this appealing, believe me. But this man’s job is to teach, first of all, so as long as he teaches well, the kids do not complain, the school has no issue… Not much we can do.” 

“Are you kidding me?” Daniel turned to look to the side. It wasn’t Johaus this time. “Are we supposed to let them be? Staying around our kids? What is it teaching them? That this is any good? That this is what a man should be? I get it. We resolve clearly different problems. But this is a problem, for fucks sake. This is fucking disgusting.”

None of them said anything. 

“We need to do something,” started the third. “Warn them. Make sure they know they’re not welcomed here. Will never be.”

His fifteen-year-old self knew or could just suspect now, that it was never supposed to be what it turned out to be.

When the first warning came around–at the school’s parking lot Charlie found a dozen of eggs smashed against the front of their newly brought from Aarhus car–Daniel didn’t link it back to the words of Johaus and his two other companions. He wasn’t given a chance to do so, mainly, because he didn’t know about it right as it happened. He found out only after the second warning, when Ross came inside the house saying _Christ, somebody cut open all of the tires in the car._ Him and Charlie were playing chess, but Ross’s alarming piece of information interrupted their session. Charlie got up wordlessly then and left the living room, walking outside in a composed style. After a while, when Dan was still sitting by the board, the two of them stood discussing in the kitchen. Its open format allowed the sound to travel easily through the living room, making Daniel aware of what he wasn’t so aware before.

“Do you know what it means?” it was Ross; Dan could make out his voice amidst others effortlessly. 

“Yes, I do,” Charlie hung.

“It’s a warning,” Ross seemed serious. “The first one? The stupid eggs? It could have been a joke. Lousy one, definitely, but a joke. A prank. Now, this–this changes the situation. It happens again in such a short time. This isn’t a coincidence, Charlie.” 

“I know. I know _._ ” 

“Then what?” 

“Then what– _what?_ It’s not like there’s anything we can do about it. Do you want to call the police?”

“Maybe we should.” 

“Maybe we should not.” 

“This _is_ a warning, Charlie. It is somebody trying to tell you something.”

“Me?”

“Us. I meant us.” 

“Maybe it’s a student. I’ve given some awful grades in the past weeks.”

“That would explain the eggs. That has explained the eggs.”

“Well, then, I don’t know. I will look into it–“ 

“No. No. I know what it is.”

“You can’t know what it is. You can only suspect.”

“It’s us.” 

“What?”

“ _Us.”_

A pause. A pause detectable to Daniel’s ears, because it wasn’t short lived. It was some minutes, surely. Then Ross continued.

“Don’t you remember what Mads said when we told everybody that we’re moving out here? You don’t seem to remember–well, then, let me refresh your memory. He called it the last standing bastion of bigotry– _”_

“Bastion of bigotry? Can you even hear yourself?”

“Don’t interrupt me.”

“This isn’t some radicalized faith camp place with Jesus figures pointing a finger at you from every corner–”

“You can’t know what it is. You can only suspect.” 

“Ha. Funny.”

They dropped to silence and as it lasted an uncomfortable minute longer than the previous pause, Daniel got off his chair, pushed it back in and walked towards the kitchen. It would be impolite to stay longer, he figured.

“I’ll go,” his head peaked from the corner. “It’s getting late.”

Both Charlie and Ross turned around. 

“Really? Oh okay–”

“We will finish playing the next time you come, all right?”

Dan shook his head with an uncertain smile, turning around to leave the house.

_You were such a coward_ , his fifteen-year-old self told him. He should have said something back then. He should have walked in and tell them exactly what he overheard, what he witnessed during the meeting. ‘ _Make sure they know they’re not welcomed here’_. He still had this sentence running down the alleys of his mind; either presenting itself occasionally or with harrowing persistence. _You were so selfish,_ he repeated inwardly. Back then, when Ross used a specific word–warning that be–he immediately made the connection between the claim and the cut open tires, alongside of smashed eggs. But he was so lonely, so desperate in his attempt to sustain what he believed was the only friendship he’ll ever have, that he decided not to tell them anything in fear that once they know what sort of agreement bounded his father, what he thought of them, what the rest thought of them, they would reject him.

In the following weeks, Dan found himself in a continuously awful mood; snapping at surrounding him people without much of reason; turning his head away in an ostentatious way whenever approached; refraining from usual activities as if he would hold a protest. Above all, a combination of fear and shame stopped him from visiting Charlie and Ross. Daniel knew he was welcomed any day at any time, and it was only a matter of crossing the forest, but still. He couldn’t bring himself up to tell the truth, so he figured, the only way to remain partially fair with them, was to avoid them. That, however, ended up to be a viscous cycle in which the more he comforted himself with avoidance, the guiltier he felt.

Then, a certain pop-up of events strengthened his already bitter demeanour. One weekend, he observed his father beat up Thomas near the shed behind their house. He didn’t mean to observe; he went downstairs to grab something to eat and as he wanted to open the fridge, he noticed them two arguing outside. Bleach red shed serving as a background. He put himself on hold; looking outside the kitchen window, as what seemed to be a regular quarrel suddenly turned into a fist play. Paralyzed, he stood gripping the windowpane, unable to move. It was his first time being a bystander to a violent outburst, and he couldn’t make his mind between sprinting outside to help his older brother and giving up to the overwhelming urge of shock. Their father was many things; coldness, command, distance, but he was never violent. In fact, he was always the one to scold Thomas for believing violence could be both the solution and the mean for obtaining power; he scolded him for choosing violence as it would be a game everybody wished to play, yet not everybody knew how. But as their father executed his punches and pushes with odd precision, and Tom’s nose was heavily bleeding, blood streaming down, falling between his lips, Dan only looked, softly murmuring a prayer. He never prayed apart from times when he was specifically asked to do so, but in this moment, in light of his incapability, he found it to be the sole way. But he couldn’t even finish a verse; _words can’t help, idiot._ So he stood there, not wanting to leave his brother alone; he stood there for what felt to him a sure eternity, but lasted even less than five minutes. Suddenly, the father stopped. He stepped backwards, staring at Thomas, until his brother turned. He didn’t have to go around the house to enter; he entered through the kitchen door, catching Daniel right, as he was about to reach the stairs. Tom fully turned around, his face a bloody mask.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare, I–” Dan was saying eventually. 

“Shut up,” he blurted incoherently, his lips swollen and his eyes teary. “Shut up,” he repeated, before taking a swift turn and disappearing upstairs.

Seconds after Tom left, Dan’s father walked in through the kitchen door as well. He kept staring at his fists, until he noticed Daniel standing still by the windowpane. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“Why did you do this?” Dan snapped in response, straightening his back. “Why did you beat him? What did he do? He didn’t do anything. He means well, he–“

“Shut the fuck up Daniel, will you, ever? Always going on about something. Shut your mouth, I advise you, or you’ll be next.”

He didn’t say a word for two days after this exchange, and a group of boys that recently had been picking on him in school, took his utter silence as a sign of permission. They caught him after class, encircled him, took his backpack away from him, and as he didn’t reply to any of their calls, they beat him up too. Before, he would always fight them; one way or another. He would shut them with a teasing remark, trick them, or just run away so quickly, _so_ quickly, none of them would be able to catch him. This time, and for some unknown to him reason, he obliged. He didn’t fight one ounce back. As their aggression intensified, he managed to only cover his head from some more reckless punches and kicks. He came back home that afternoon without a backpack and his bike, with plenty of blood around his nose and mouth. Same evening, as the entire family sat down to have dinner, and both Daniel and Tom had visible marks from their physical encounters, the mother said in a weak tone, “This needs to end.” 

It was around midnight, that day, when they were both lying in their beds, pretending to be asleep. Dan kept tossing in his sheets, hoping the whiteness of the wall would lull him, but it didn’t. 

“Tom?” he asked into the darkness, a question followed by hollow silence. “Are you asleep?” 

“No,” he answered vaguely, his tone of voice tired rather than bothered.

“I can’t sleep.”

But Thomas made no response to this remark. 

“Who beat you up?” the older brother asked after a while. 

“I’ll tell you, if you tell me why dad beat you up,” Dan requested. It was still dark inside of their bedroom, and Daniel figured that for the sake of their conversation running smoothly it would be better to keep it that way. 

“It’s complicated.” 

“No, it’s not. There must be a reason.” 

“Did you give them a reason to beat you up?” and when Dan didn’t reply right after the question, Tom snickered. “You didn’t.” 

“They were picking on me for a while. My head teacher filed a proposal to the principal to move me a grade higher. I had some trial classes with them, and they just didn’t like me.”

“Didn’t like you? This isn’t a reason. Besides, why didn’t you tell me about this proposal? This is great.”

“You were busy. And I had to do some tests. Then they called mom, but mom said she can’t make it to the school.”

“And dad?”

“Dad said I’m not emotionally ready for this change.”

“The fuck does he know?”

Dan closed his mouth right as he heard this comment. Thomas was the outspoken one, but he never formulated anything disrespectful towards their dad. To be frank, he was often making excuses for his behaviour. Not tonight, at least. 

“It’s fine. Maybe I’m not ready.”

“Yeah maybe, but you’re definitely smart enough. Isn’t it the most important thing?”

“I don’t know. Can’t do anything without parental agreement.”

“I’ll sign the papers for you. They’ll never find out.”

Dan laughed. “Sure, in the principal office?”

“Oh. Right. Didn’t think about that. I thought you already have the papers and they just need to sign them.”

“Whatever.” 

It was quiet for a while. 

“So,” Dan started again. “Why did he beat you up?”

Tom sighed, paused, and then began. “We were talking in the kitchen. He asked me if I know anything about you going to the house. You know, the house behind the forest.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That I don’t know anything.” 

“And?” 

“He didn’t believe me, of course. He started asking more questions, but I answered them all saying that I don’t know anything,” he stopped. “To protect you, what else. You think I don’t know you go there all the time?” He paused once more. “Listen Dan, I’m no smart like you. But just because I can’t fix a math problem or memorize a bunch of crap in speed light, it doesn’t mean I’m stupid. You’re barely ever home after school. During weekends it’s like you disappear. I know you have no friends to hang out with. Where else would you go? To _them._ ” He exhaled loudly. “I saw you entering the forest so many times. Don’t tell me you go there to count your stupid trees. You already know this place by heart. Why do you visit them so often?”

In response Daniel pursed his lips and shrugged his arms, despite knowing well Tom couldn’t possibly see him in the dark.

“Answer,” he insisted.

“I don’t know,” Dan sounded helpless; maybe if he was more proficient with words he could explain it somehow, but because he was terrible with words, he couldn’t explain it at all. 

“Don’t you know what they are? Haven’t you heard what Johaus and the others said? After that meeting, dad explained this to me. About how wrong and shameful it is. When you really think about it, when you really do, don’t you find this disgusting?” 

Tom’s attitude and words weren’t particularly hostile, Daniel realized. At least, they didn’t bear the same amount of antipathy as the attitudes of Johaus and his two other proponents. But there was undoubtedly some kind of distaste in his tone. When Dan thought about what his older brother have said, for some reason he didn’t think about Ross and Charlie; he couldn’t imagine Ross and Charlie fitting that exact description. He knew them, to some extent only, but he knew them enough to be sure that they’re not wrong, shameful, definitely not disgusting. They were the opposites of that, and much more. But Tom’s voice was assuring, as if he knew something that Dan had no idea about.

“But you don’t know them at all,” the younger have finally countered. “How can you say anything about anyone without speaking to them first? It’s simple logic. You have no proof. It’s like the criminal series we sometimes watch on TV 2–”

“Jesus, shut up, Danny,” Tom retorted with an annoyed tone. “This isn’t a criminal case. This isn’t TV 2. I’m just telling you what dad told me.”

“Then didn’t you think to ask him the same questions I’m asking you?” 

“Dad spoke to one of them. Don’t you remember?”

“Yes, but for some short time–“ 

“What do they tell you?” Tom interrupted harshly.

“What?” 

“What are they telling you that you defend them so much?” 

“I don’t know what you mean. They don’t tell me anything.”

They were both quiet for a while. It seemed, as the discussion was going nowhere, both of the brothers incapable of accepting the not so sublime differences between their reasoning and comprehension. Tom adopted what he believed to be the only truth, especially when it came from his father’s mouth. Daniel, however, relied on his experience, already built perception. Although, he was lured by Thomas’s lack of doubt; the assurance in his voice, he wanted to believe that the bond he created with Ross and Charlie wouldn’t mistake him. 

“You know that they’re like mom and dad?” Tom asked, his voice suddenly much less loud and sure.

“What do you mean?” 

“God, for somebody so smart, you can be really dumb sometimes, Dan,” and Dan smiled despite it being an obvious insult. “You know, like a girl and a boy. Together.” 

Dan didn’t say a word.

“Okay. Let me explain this better. You have some girls in your class, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Exactly. Now, some of them are meh, some of them are ugly, and some of them are pretty. Am I right?”

Dan closed his eyes now and quickly scanned through a number of faces, almost as if they were catalogued inside of his brain. He was nodding his head, belatedly approving his brother’s statement. Lisel was surely the prettiest one, he admitted to himself.

“You’re not saying anything, but I know I’m right. You know math, I know girls,” he paused after this sentence, as if waiting for some kind of applaud, and when it didn’t come, he resumed with a sigh as if he was a master of this subject, and Dan his impaired student. “Now, think about the prettiest girl in your class.”

Dan imagined Lisel; he could envision her picture-clear in his mind. She had a very gentle smile, bright eyes, and soft cheeks. He knew, because his math teacher paired them together for all of the semester assignments, and once when he was explaining the task to her, his pencil flipped and poked her cheek. She grimaced in a sudden feel of spiky pain, and Dan rushed to rub her skin. He didn’t like to think about this accident; although minor and easily forgettable it came hunting him occasionally. For weeks after it has happened, a group of boys from his class kept throwing sharpened pencils at him in a very painstaking way of reminding him what a gaffe he made.

“Are you thinking about her or are you asleep?”

“Thinking about her,” Dan replied, with technical focus rather as if awakened from a dreamy state.

“Good. Now. Think about something like holding her hand.”

_Weird_ , Dan thought. Why would he hold her hand?

“Think about maybe kissing her cheek, at first.”

He could do that. He could definitely kiss her cheeks. But again, why? 

“Then she can kiss yours. And then, you can kiss her lips.” 

Lips? Automatically, Dan touched his own lips. Placing his upon somebody else’s seemed a very intimate act; something he couldn’t imagine doing just now. He had difficulties maintaining engaging exchange of sentences; people generally overwhelmed him to far levels, and kissing seemed entirely out of his reach. In the end, when he thought about the total of socializing effort he ought to make in order to arrive to this stage, he figured he could surely invest that time in more beneficial ways. And even, supposing he managed to put the needed amount of effort, there was still one, very pressing matter.

“What if she doesn’t want to kiss me back?”

And then his brother began to laugh.

“That, Danny, you leave up to chance. But it never hurts to try.”

“So, what’s the point?”

“Of?” 

“Of this story? A girl and a boy.” 

“You still don’t get it?”

“I mean, girls and boys hold hands, they kiss their cheeks, I guess lips too.”

“Okay. And now we have two men. Or you can have two boys. And they hold their hands, and kiss their cheeks, and their lips.”

Strange, Daniel figured. But it wasn’t a hit of strangeness upon the so-called conflict of genders. It was strange to him in this case, as it was in a previous one. Maybe he was too young; just like he was too young to skip a grade. Maybe his current, no matter how advanced, comprehension of certain subjects still wasn’t enough to grasp other’s need for such human pleasantries. The entire range of interactions; the nuances, the smallest gestures–they remained foreign to him. And that others could relentlessly seek it, crave it, and fight for it–that remained foreign to him too.

“You’re not saying anything,” Tom concluded.

“I don’t know what to say. I think I just don’t understand it.”

“Fine. When I was eight I didn’t care about girls. I get it. But now I do. And you will, too. I’m just trying to explain to you that there is something wrong about two men being together like girls and boys are. I’m not liking it.” 

Dan hummed. “But nobody is asking you to like it. There is so many kids in my school and nobody is asking me to like them, or–”

“Okay, but you’re different, Dan. It seems like you just don’t care about anything, which is weird, because–“

“Not everybody is like you or dad.” 

“Yeah, but–”

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” Dan suddenly turned to lie on his side, shutting his eyes. 

“Okay.” 

They were both quiet for a while, until Daniel shifted to lie on his back, eyes wide open, trying to make out the complexes of the bedroom’s ceiling. “Thanks, Tom.” 

“What?”

“Thanks for standing up for me.”

“Ah. Sure.” Thomas paused. “Always.”

For the next two weeks, it seemed to Dan as if the whole world gradually began to stop spinning so frantically. Suddenly, as it often was after any kind of turbulence, calmness prevailed. It has gotten so quiet around him. Barely anybody spoke and even if they did, Daniel couldn’t understand anything they’ve said. Silence was ringing in his ears and it became this one, singular sound. Even his thoughts bared the sound of silence so nagging that when once he considered them to be of friendly nature, his sure companion, now they were driving him into a dark, secluded place. He didn’t know what to do and who to talk to; he couldn’t even possibly describe the feeling if asked to, mostly because it wasn’t a feeling. It was his thoughts spinning, paradoxically, when everything else stopped to spin. What tricked him was the belief that calmness usually characterized the end of misery and chaos. Daniel couldn’t think it would be otherwise.

It was a Saturday morning and they were all sitting down by the round table, eating breakfast in quietude with a loud variety of sharp sounds interrupting their muteness; noises of glasses, forks, plates, hums and swallowing. Occasionally, Tom or Stephanie threw in a comment about weather, homework, next weekend plans, yet nobody picked up. Dan was sitting in front of his father, but they rarely managed to exchange a sufficient glance with the youngest seeking some kind of assistance upon his mother’s presence. Although she seemed to be physically in tact, her eyes were wandering across the walls, her head barely moving, and so Daniel gave up on trying to reach her.

“There was an accident.”

Daniel looked up, gazing directly at his father. What he saw wasn’t his eyes, or rather a general expression marking his face. He could only see his mouth; lips moving and folding; his tongue slightly poking at the corners.

“What accident?” Stephanie asked, but Daniel didn’t follow her voice. He was still staring at his father’s lips.

“Johaus called the house at seven,” the father began, but Daniel could only think about how he was awake at seven in the morning, lying in his bed, thinking a bunch of irrelevant thoughts.

“What did he say? What happened?” Tom was persistent.

“A fire broke out,” he paused, staring back at Daniel. “16f.”

“What’s 16f?” Tom asked looking around their faces, searching for an answer.

“It’s the house behind the forest,” their mother said, finally speaking out.

What happened afterwards was something that bothered Dan for years further, although his current fifteen-year-old self couldn’t exactly remember what he felt back then this particular Saturday morning. He often retraced their dialogue, searching for ways to undo what has been done; as if a correct compilation of words could have erased the accident.

The moment his mother mentioned the house, it has taken Daniel a slow minute to realize what the house behind the forest truly meant and more importantly, whom this expression regarded. But the minute the realization hit him; he pushed his chair back and ran out of the house through the kitchen door. He was running barefoot in his shorts, despite it being a morning numb with cold. He didn’t even realize Tommas was running after him all this time, shouting, begging him to stop and it was only when Daniel slipped, falling forward, did his older brother catch him, pulling him up.

“Stop it, Dan,” Tom was breathing out heavily. “Stop it.”

But Daniel quickly escaped his clench, running towards the final line of trees. Only then he came to an abrupt halt, his body stopping from darting any further. His breath was frantic; his cheeks reddened and shoulders trembling. 

There was nothing left of the white and blue and Daniel could see the tape rolled meters in front of what used to be the duo-coloured house. There was a car parked next to the porch remainings, on the road that both Ross and Charlie frequently complained about. _So bumpy it feels like my head is going to just fall off every time I drive here._ Daniel heard that sentence ringing loud and clear in his head. He heard their voices almost as if they would be standing an arm away from him. Just seconds after, Tommas caught up with Dan and all that Dan could hear then was Tom’s irregular set of exhales and inhales. His brother’s hand landed on Daniel’s shoulder, grasping it with both strength and support, as if that grasp only was supposed to console him. Although the younger didn’t know then yet, that he would need consolation. “Let me be alone,” he said, before breaking free from his brother’s squeeze, beginning to run, thinking he must find the two of them. He was running through the patches of grass, until he reached the lone car.

“Daniel? What are you doing here?”

He quickly turned around to see a familiar face; a man who lived with his wife and three sons about five houses away from theirs.

“I’m–” he began, not knowing what to say or exactly how to explain his appearance. “I–I heard about the fire. Where are Ross and Charlie?”

The man came closer, staring questioningly at Daniel’s attire with a look of worry rather than judgment. “Me and my wife went mushroom hunting this morning in the forest, really early, when we saw the house burning and notified the police. They sent the firefighters.”

Daniel was nodding his head.

“You shouldn’t be here, Daniel. Aren’t you cold? Where is your mom? Your dad?”

“Back in the house,” he replied, turning his head to the sides, looking for Tom, but clearly he didn’t follow him. 

“You should go back. There’s nothing else you can do. They were fighting with the fire for some time, but it was too late. The firefighters left around an hour ago; they said they’re going to come for cleanup later, but this is just debris. When fire strikes such an old house it eats it alive.”

In the distance Daniel saw few other people walking around, among them the man’s wife he didn’t know all too well. 

“We tried to help, then some others came later––” he paused, his stare trailing. “You better go home, Daniel.” 

“What about Ross and Charlie? Are they okay? Do they know what happened to the house?”

“Daniel, go home now,” he answered him firmly.

“Are they okay?”

“They were inside the house, Daniel.”

 

 

 

**#5 The Aftermath I**

 

 

 

The first days, he was entirely speechless. He didn’t cry, he didn’t shout, it looked as if he barely even blinked his eyes; they became awfully red. He found it difficult, if not impossible, to go through his daily activities as fluently as before. Daniel was aware of the scope of the tragedy; he overheard almost everybody talking about it. Some even bothered to ask him questions, as people found out that that Saturday morning he ran over to the house barefoot and in shorts. They–older people, younger, his peers–didn’t ask about Charlie and Ross; it seemed as though nobody wanted to talk about them. Instead, they all asked about the house, how did it look, who has he seen there, about what Daniel was doing there, and why did he even go there in the first place. But he never answered. If he wanted to give a thorough explanation, he had to begin from the very beginning, and he didn’t want to do that. Yet, as the days were passing by, all sources of information were getting more and more explored, and both the police and firefighters marked this event as an unfortunate incident of some inadequate electrical wiring common to this type of an old property, Daniel began to be less and less flooded with questions. He could only think about how Ross and Charlie were diligent in their renovations and made sure that the archaic solutions once applied were nowadays modernized. He found the theory about inadequate wiring a pile of bullshit, but he had no say in anything anyway. 

At home, things have taken an off turn. Nobody was speaking. They proceeded with their tasks uninterruptedly, but in silence. Even Stephanie shied away from discussion and their father issued mostly singular commands. Once a sure fan of such monotonous pattern, now Daniel found it exhausting. He wanted answers, not its opposite. He needed to fill the void, so some time after, in the second or third week after the accident, he began to ask questions. He would blurt them out, becoming more like Tommas in his uninhibited display of curiosity. He asked about death; _does it hurt when you die?_ Or _when you’re dying do you know that you’re dying?_ He asked about fire; _how long until you burn to death? Is it seconds? Minutes? Do you get to cry?_ He asked about the house; _how did Johaus know that there was fire? Why did he call you, dad? Why nobody helped them?_ He asked about himself; _am I going to die? Are you going to die? Are we all going to die? Can you prolong the process? Can you shorten it? What causes it? Is god watching it? If he’s watching us all die, why isn’t he doing anything? Could we be dying this very moment?_ His father would tell him that he is ludicrous. He would brush him off. He would tell him to read the Bible. He would ask him to ask his biology teacher or his chemistry teacher. At some point Daniel realized he wasn’t asking for the sake of knowing; perhaps he didn’t even want to know anything at all. He was asking, because he was irritated, angered, and then furious nobody found it important enough to talk about it. Two people died in unexplainable circumstances and nobody wanted to talk about it. 

Then, he wanted to scream. He wanted to rip things apart. He wanted to feel something different than what he was feeling; yet nothing brought relief. Tommas became increasingly affectionate, and Dan despised it. Stephanie would offer extra giggles, and it only made him extra vexed. He wanted his mom to help; to offer something nobody else was offering, but she remained indifferent. He observed her moving across the house, almost as a ghost, as if she was sliding centimetres above the ground; pale, skinny, fragile. Her stare empty. Daniel often wondered whether he will turn out as her, and he feared it. He feared the future, in which he would resemble his own mother, and her fractured, broken, emotionless self. He would protect her before from the wrongful judgements crossing their household, but now he was the first to stream them. _What is wrong with you?_ He asked her with dismay. _Tell dad you need some help. This is not normal, mom. What is happening to you?_ On some days she could barely formulate an answer and it made him angrier than the send-off offered by his father.

When a month or two passed, and it’s gotten similarly quiet and motionless as before the accident, came a feeling he forgot about in the midst of all previous chaos. He again began feeling ashamed of never mustering the courage to tell them what he overheard, what he alone suspected was happening. He was ashamed of himself; he felt as if everybody knew what a coward he was. He wanted to cry, but there were no tears; only voices in his head making fun of him, pointing fingers at him. What came hurting him the most was the fact that he missed them, terribly. He missed what their house provided even more now, when he faced everyday what his own did not provide. He missed playing chess, building patterns, eating eggs, and listening to music. He missed how they two talked, even when he himself wasn’t so voluble. He missed the colours of the house; the trip across the forest. The small trees, the big trees, the smells. Nothing smelled the same anymore. 

As an eight-year old then, he couldn’t entirely grasp the complexity of this loss and as there was no one willing to explain it to him, he explained it to himself as best as he could; as logically as much logic he could find in it. He filled his reasoning with sentences such as _this wasn’t your fault,_ or _there was nothing you could have done to help._ And although he believed himself for some minutes, hours sometimes on a better, brighter day, afterwards he was sinking into a myriad of voices telling him otherwise. He wondered if anyone else could hear them too, but he was aware it was unlikely. Daniel knew he was the only one so deeply tormented by their death and at some point he figured that it was also what made it worse for him. The fact that he couldn’t share his pain and his lack of understanding and his exasperation with anyone else; not that he would actually do so given such opportunity ever arrived, but sole knowledge of not being granted this chance was making him feel absurdly isolated.

Later as things have gotten slightly better; milder, less prominent, still as though like wading through mould, Daniel overheard a conversation between his parents that fuelled him with explicit rage, but pain too. Pain that was a different kind of pain he has ever suffered through. Normally, he was accustomed to experiencing some sort of discomfort; he felt uneasy around his dad, but recently mom too, somehow misunderstood by his siblings, and regularly ridiculed by his schoolmates. Those could have been little things to others, minor obstacles some can find their way out of, but to Daniel they have been the universe; one that is constanly expanding only to squeeze in more of his sorrows.

One night he woke up around midnight, his throat dry with thirst. He left his bed half-awake only to go downstairs and have few gulps of tap water. He didn’t have to switch on the lights, knowing every step, crook and corner of the house. However, as he was going upstairs, conscious more than few minutes before, he saw a string of light coming from their parents bedroom. They rarely kept it ajar, but Daniel was willing to omit this fact for the promise of his bed’s warmth. As he was about to slide into their shared room, he heard his mother saying, “Do you realize how that makes me feel knowing that you’re partially involved in this?”

He was still lured to skip it and go to sleep.

“You don’t understand,” his father interrupted, although Dan was sure he noticed a significant pause after the question that gave space for this comment.

“Knowing that you do not care as much as you should have?” His mother’s tone of clarity and demand made him stand still centimeters before the doorway, almost as he would be the one she was talking to.

“What do you want me to say?”

“You allowed for somebody else’s life to be taken on the basis of a wrongful premise. You are responsible for an act that should have never happened–“

“It was an accident!” 

“It was _not.”_  

“It was an–”

“Please explain then Johaus calling with the news before anyone else knew although he said he wasn’t there physically? Please explain–”

“They weren’t supposed to be in the house, do you understand?” 

It’s gotten silent then and Daniel made sure to keep his breath tight between the lips so they wouldn’t hear him standing meters away from their door.

His father continued. “What I know from Johaus is that his son had his Friday’s math class cancelled, because Hessen, his math teacher, had to go to Aarhus to pick his _friend_ from some medical check-up. They figured nobody would be home and their shed was the only thing that was supposed to go down. As a warning. But then the fire caught up so quickly with the rest of the house…”

Daniel didn’t hear his mother responding to this, and so he assumed there was no response. 

“I have no idea how they happened to be there. Maybe they have gotten back earlier. Maybe it was some made-up excuse. Maybe somebody should have double-checked that. Maybe then maybe is the answer, because it could be million of things. We will never know now. What I know is that it was an accident. Johaus never specifically said he wants to”–he paused there, and Daniel moved a step forward to hear him better–“harm them.”

“So what? I don’t care about what Johaus said or didn’t say. You should have known better than to agree to all of this. Whether you had an opinion or not, it wasn’t your place to act on it. It’s nobody’s place to act on it. When will you finally realize that you can’t be bossing everyone around and expecting others to live as you wish?” 

There was a sudden rush of footsteps and before Daniel found a chance to quickly slide between the door and the doorframe, his father stomped out of the bedroom. As he opened the door, the string of light widened and the corridor, in which he was standing, was now in full, soft light. 

But his father didn’t see him at first, Dan plastering himself to the wall, breathing out quickly. He saw him at last, though, just as he moved a few steps forward. Dan was in frenzy. _He’s going to beat me. Smash me. He will throw me down the stars. Throw me against the wall._

They were staring at each other in absolute silence, even though Daniel was urged to explain himself and apologize. Naturally, he didn’t mean to stand there and eavesdrop. He didn’t mean to be disrespectful, sneaky, and nosy–just as his father liked to describe him. But as Dan wanted to put together a couple of words, to his great surprise, his father’s eyes turned down and he began walking, Daniel’s stare tracing him until he disappeared going down the stairs. Dan stood there puzzled, only to get back to his bed some minutes later. 

He was crying.

He was lying still between the sheets with Tommas loudly snoring in the opposite bed, and he was crying.

Because it was his fault, because they trusted him and he deceived them, because he trusted his father and his father deceived him, because somebody should have helped them, yet no one did, because he could have helped them, and he hasn’t.

He cried until dawn, until he couldn’t cry anymore and then he fell asleep uneasily, dreaming about the white and blue, the porch caught up in fire, flames rapidly swallowing the wood.

Later in the morning, just as he was in the middle of preparing breakfast, taking a bowl out of a kitchen drawer, his father wordlessly pulled his shoulder and Dan stood facing him, his back pressed against the counter. _Now, he’ll kill me._

“If I find out, ever, that you said a word to anyone about what you’ve heard yesterday night. A word, Daniel, I promise you, I’ll do awful things.”

Daniel didn’t respond. He was looking into his father eyes, counting the seconds, thinking about how his father’s fingers painfully dig into his skin. But he did not respond. 

“Do you understand? Answer me.”

“What awful things?” he blurted out, suddenly, surprised at his own unexpected bluntness. “What will you do?”

“Is this funny to you?”

“It’s not.” 

“Why do you always have to be like that? Tell me. Why do you always–”

“I don’t know, dad. But maybe you doing awful things to me, to anyone else, are worth it. Maybe it’s worth telling the truth. Maybe it’s worth telling everyone what you and others did.”

He hit him without hesitation. First with an open palm, and then the second time too, when Daniel’s head bobbed back, his lips trembling. The third time, his father hesitated. He didn’t end up hitting him, but his hands clenched on the bottom of Dan’s neck, thumbs under the collarbone hooks, and he began to choke him; loosening up for seconds, only to clench firmly in the following moments. After two such intervals Dan seemed to be of less and less conscious, hearing no more than shreds of his father’s alerting sentences. Just as he was about to completely black out, he saw his older brother jumping at their father’s back with a loud scream. 

“Leave him alone, leave him alone,” he kept repeating maniacally, and his father did leave Dan alone. His neck suddenly free from the clench, air coming through his throat and his nose thrills, filling his lungs, bringing much anticipated relief. He leaned over the counter, breathing in and out, in and out. For some time he could only hear his own breath. 

When Daniel finally turned around, vision still hazy, he saw his father leaning against the fridge, his chest falling and rising quickly. Tommas was standing in-between them and his head was moving to the sides so fast Dan thought it was spiralling.

Maybe a minute or two later, their father left, shutting the kitchen’s back door loudly. It was exactly then, that Tom leaped forward, his hand landing softly on Dan’s arm.

“Are you okay, Daniel?” 

He moved away. His breath getting more spasmodic, the closer his older brother stood.

“Daniel, talk to me. Are you okay?”

His ribcage was pressing tightly over his lungs, he was dizzy, and he felt the skin on his neck burning.

“Daniel!” 

He let out a small breath then, as in pain. “I’m fine,” he mumbled.

“What happened?”

It was a question that even if he found strength and willingness to answer, he couldn’t. He didn’t know what happened. One moment he was saying something, and then, in the next one, his father was choking him. A sensation so bizarre, he doubted there were words accurate enough to recount it. When he hit him, he felt pain that was sharp and precise. Dan was familiar with it; it felt almost as that one time when a group of boys chased him, then got him after classes, only less intense in the amount of physical abuse offered. But choking was different. It was gradual, and depriving. It was also painful, even overwhelmingly so, but somehow not nearly painful enough.

“I don’t know,” he answered at last, his throat hurting. “He got mad.” 

“I’m going to tell mom.”

“No,” Dan opposed immediately, taking hold of his arm. “Don’t tell her anything. Don’t say a word. It’s fine.”

Tom grabbed his chin, pulling it upward, examining the marks on his neck. “What if you died?”

He rolled his eyes then, but still, years later Daniel well remembered, even well heard himself answering that question, inwardly. _Maybe I should have._

 

 

 

**#6 The Aftermath II**

 

 

 

Their mother committed suicide not even a year after the accident. In the months leading to her death, she remained fixed. She had those weeks when she was _just_ floating, but then there were weeks of clearly different nature; weeks in which she was present and loving; weeks during which he didn’t question her behaviour.

He came home that afternoon after school and the house was ringing with silence. There was nothing unusual about that. He assumed their father was still at work, Tommas surely hanging out with a group of his friends, and Steph must have been somewhere around, although he didn’t know where exactly. He went to the kitchen first, and noticed none of the stoves were busy. He figured there probably would be sandwich for dinner. He left his backpack and went upstairs. Although Daniel kept calling his mom, she did not respond. He peaked into their bedroom reassuringly, but Tommas wasn’t there. Stephanie’s door was wide open and she wasn’t there too. Their parents’ bedroom was closed and once he opened it, Dan noticed that the bed was made which meant that his mother must have been up and going this day. He was confused. Every time she had to do something outside the house, they were informed about it in advance. For years Daniel hasn’t seen here just casually strolling to a neighbour for an afternoon chat. If she needed anything from the local store, she asked one of them to go and buy it. He remembered her fairly social when he was just five or six, but years later, now that he was almost nine, he only remembered her locked between those walls. He checked the bathroom upstairs, but it was empty. 

Daniel went downstairs again. He touched the stoves carefully, but they were cold. He looked around and he called her, but nobody answered. He went to the dining room; he looked behind the sofa on which he sat some minutes after. He shrugged his shoulders, wondering where is everyone. Then, as he was still sitting down, he realized he hasn’t checked in the guest bathroom yet, and the garage. Their guest bathroom was rarely ever used since the toilet’s water installation was incorrect. He thought it was unlikely to spot her there, especially that by then she would have responded to him calling, but he convinced himself to give it a try anyway. 

He found her hanging on a thick rope, tightly looped around the neck. 

He was screaming. 

In fact, years after it was the only thing he remembered from that afternoon—his blaring, belligerent scream.

Daniel almost entirely forgot how just minutes later he called the three-digit emergency number, trying to explain the lady across the line how his mother was hanging from the ceiling, how her face was a colour of white, green and purple and how her eyes were unnaturally rolled. He forgot how he begged the lady to call his father, although he didn’t know how they could possibly reach his father. He forgot how he asked her to send somebody fast, _now_. He forgot how he helplessly tried to explain where they lived. He forgot how after they finished talking he ran outside, screaming, calling his brother’s name. He forgot how some immeasurable time later the ambulance drove past him, siren on, as he stood by the empty road, crying. 

What he remembered, instead, was an endless string of moments after the suicide that stretched out so rapidly, he didn’t think he experienced anything other than the aftermath of her death in years to come. When Charlie and Ross died, he was left with grief and solitude. He considered it then a curse. He thought coping would be easier if he had anybody willing to resolve it with him; at least partially, maybe with a gesture, through a mild eye contact. He didn’t demand words, was never a fan, but something. He hoped there was something that could have helped. When their mother passed away, he was offered all that and reversely he couldn’t imagine it being a fit. Talking about it was worse than not talking about it, when not talking about it was already frightful enough. Thinking about it was worse than not thinking about it, when there was no such possibility as not thinking about it. It was hearing it and seeing it; from others, through others. It was being offered a helping hand and knowing, knowing all too well, that it won’t cure and it won’t mend––not necessarily him or his family, but her. Not anymore.

Stephanie cried endlessly, and Tommas, as their father, rarely made it home before ten in the evening. Daniel kept it all to himself, but before that phase preyed on he spent months fighting against psychosis.

The first night after he found her in the bathroom, Dan dreamed about her hanging. That same scene kept replying throughout the night, despite him waking up several times with a loud scream, Tommas trying to comfort him by saying that it was just a nightmare. He dreamed about her all the time. In his dreams, he was locked in certain places, knowing that he has to find her, always being fooled that if he finds her right on time, he’ll be able to prevent her from committing suicide. Of course, he never managed to find her on time. He barged into rooms, large halls, basements, classrooms, shops and there she was, hanging on a thick, bronze rope. Dead. 

His own scream kept waking him up and he began to cry, almost hysterically, the moment he realized that he woke up to reality in which there was no chance that a faster, more efficient execution of moves could win him time to save her. He suffered through those nightmares because they had a vile method of torturing him by providing hope, but he suffered even more when he woke up, knowing that hope was just a product of his imagination.

There was time, just a month after her death, when Daniel began struggling with insomnia. At the beginning, he understood it as fear; he was afraid of those nightmares, they were bothering him every night, but after few weeks of being exposed to same images, compilations and mazes inside of his mind, he somehow became used to them. He was sweating less, crying less, shaking less, but just as he thought he won a battle against an invisible opponent––later he understood, _himself_ ––he began edging away.

Nights were sleepless. Mornings were abrupt. Afternoons were for dozing off with eyes wide open and evenings were burdensome. He was never particularly afraid of darkness, but as insomnia began to creep in Dan found himself lying down, hearing voices. It wasn’t his mom talking to him, it wasn’t Charlie, and it wasn’t Ross. It was him. It was his voice.

At first, Daniel was convinced that he was just trying to guide himself. He remembered that before his mother’s death he used to talk to himself many times. For instance, when he was solving math problems; _you need to replace the sign here,_ or when he was thinking about his tasks for the day, _I need to help dad first, then I need to finish my homework, then…_ Often even, he witnessed Tom murmuring something underneath his nose and when Dan asked him to repeat what he has said, Tom would look at him weirdly, telling him that he wasn’t saying anything to him, just talking to himself. So it was okay, Daniel thought at the beginning, to talk to yourself. After few such nights, however, he began to comprehend that it wasn’t a friendly monologue. It wasn’t something of a dear companion. It was his dark, vicious, tedious side.

_Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. If only you were better, smarter, faster, kinder, kinder, better, nicer. If only you loved her more. If only she loved you more. If only you had more courage. If only she wanted to stay. If only you weren’t you, then maybe she would have wanted to stay. If only you weren’t you._

_If only you weren’t you. If only you weren’t you. If only you weren’t you. If only you weren’t you. If only you weren’t you. If only you weren’t you. If only you weren’t you. If only you weren’t you. If only you weren’t you. If only you weren’t you. If only you weren’t you. If only you weren’t you. If only you weren’t you. If only you weren’t you. If only you weren’t you. If only you weren’t you. If only you weren’t you. If only you weren’t you. If only you weren’t you. If only you weren’t you. If only you weren’t you. If only you weren’t you. If only you weren’t you. If only you weren’t you. If only you weren’t you._

He tried shaking his head. He tried tossing and turning. He tried switching the light on and off. He tried waking Tom up. He tried covering his ears. He tried covering his eyes. He tried pushing his head under the pillow, then under the bedsheets, but the only thing that allowed him to get rid of the voice was when he screamed. Only then, for that split of a moment, he heard nothing. But as much as it has helped him, he knew it wasn’t a long-term solution. It wasn’t something he felt he could do anytime at any given moment; not because he considered himself bounded by certain norms, but because he could scream so deafeningly only when the peak of voices overwhelmed.

He didn’t hear them during the day. He searched for them, yes, but he didn’t hear them. On his way to school, mid-way, he would stop among the astonishing sound of silence and he would think: _are they gone?_ But then, just as he lied down in the evening, heart thumping, he heard himself.

_Hi, Daniel._

_It’s me._

_Don’t you recognize me?_

_Come on, you do._

_Do you remember what I told you yesterday?_

_You may have forgotten._

_Allow me to repeat._

And just as he heard the introductory verses, fear rushed down his body, clenching. He was _so_ tired. So tired of hearing them every night. So tired of not being able to sleep. So tired of the same cycle prevailing, just rolling and rolling, swallowing up the days. In absolute frenzy, he recalled later, he pushed the bedsheets and jumped out of his bed. He needed to leave the house; that was what he remembered best before he tripped outside of their bedroom and fell down the stairs. 

It was very quick, bur also very noisy. As he landed on the bottom, thick wooden panels under his back, he was barely conscious. He felt something warm on his lips, he felt something painful in his chest. He tried keeping his eyes open, but his eyelids were sliding. For the first time in weeks, he felt just as if he was about to fall asleep.

But he didn’t. 

His father, brother and sister all ran downstairs to check up on him, exchanging sentences in high-pitched tones, commanding one another. Finally, they placed him on the sofa, encircling his body.

“Dan, Dan, are you there?”

“How are you feeling?”

“Dan, can you hear me?”

“We need to take him to the hospital, dad. Look at his nose. It’s bleeding.”

“There is something weird with his arm. What if it’s broken, dad?”

“We can’t just leave him like this here. We can’t.”

“Both of you. Up.”

“What?”

“Both of you will go upstairs. _Now._ ”

Suddenly, it’s gotten so quiet. Dan heard himself breathing. There were no voices, despite his eyes being nearly shut.

“Daniel,” his father said softly. His breath was warm; Dan felt it on his cheek. “Daniel, please, open your eyes for a second, all right?” 

He opened them for a moment, but then, as if out of his ordering reach, they went shut. 

“Nod your head if you can hear me, okay?”

He nodded.

“I will bring you a cold towel and water. Stay here.”

But he wouldn’t be able to move, even if he wanted so.

“I’m here,” he said after a while, but Daniel recognized his presence mostly when his father pressed the cold towel against his face, gently wiping the blood from his mouth. “I don’t think it’s broken. It doesn’t look like it’s broken. Does it hurt?”

His nose? “Nah,” he murmured.

“Your arms?”

“No.”

“Anything?”

Everything. But he didn’t say it. “My side.”

“Your ribs?” 

“Mhm,” he pointed by placing his hand on his side.

His dad sat down next to the couch, his face next to Daniel’s. “Daniel, listen to me carefully now, okay? You will be fine. It was just a bunch of stairs. I can’t call the ambulance, you know it.”

He didn’t say anything.

“I can’t call the ambulance, because if I do and they start asking questions. If they start asking you questions about how you feel, what happened, what has been going on… They can take you some place else. It’s not normal to hear voices, Dan. To scream for no reason. To jump out of your bedroom and almost throw yourself down the stairs.”

It wasn’t like that, he wanted to oppose, but he couldn’t find the words, or the strength.

“I’ll stay here with you for the night. Don’t worry. This was just an accident.”

There was something soothing about his father’s tone of voice. Something that ringed a bell of familiarity, but then he knew it couldn’t. As he was dozing on the verge of consciousness, he recalled that time when he was talking to his mom in her bedroom. They were going through photos. It was years ago. She said something about his father’s voice. She told him that it used to have this singing, hypnotizing feel. That it sounded low and inviting, some kind of serene. He was sure now, that this memory was untrue. That it was the unspeakable ability of his mind to create images and situations that have never taken place. To create words that were never spoken. _I wonder which one of you will have his voice._ Just as he heard her, he wept. He wept in fear that this was coming back, the voices. He wept, because he hasn’t heard her in weeks, months. He wept, because he was just _so_ tired. He wept, because he didn’t want the voice, he didn’t want to go some place else. He wept, because he couldn’t sleep and all he wanted to do was sleep. He wept, because he missed her, but then he wept, because she broke his heart, because she left him. He wept, because every tangle of his body was in agony. 

“Daniel,” his father began after some unknown amount of time has passed. “Daniel, listen to me. It is very important that you hear me now. You need to know that this isn’t easy, that we are all suffering, but you need to be strong. You need to find a way to be strong. Nobody can help you finding a way, only you.”

That same night, just few hours forward, he woke up to find his dad sleeping on the ground, his back leaning against the sofa. In the distance, on the last step of the stairs, there were Steph and Tom, piling up on one another, also sleeping. They never went upstairs, he figured. They were watching him.

 

 

 

**#7 Some Place Else**

 

 

 

He did not come to loose his voice just like _that._ It wasn’t within a finger snap, it wasn’t when he was told to shut up, when his father was choking him, wasn’t when he saw his mother hanging, when he found out that Charlie and Ross died. It was minute after minute, an extension of seconds. It was years of neglect and past months of trauma. It was a culmination of fears. It was loss. It was not being offered sustained support and not knowing how to seek it.

For one thing, he was never particularly voluble. After a fight, after being shouted at, after being ridiculed, after witnessing certain events––it was rare to find him willing to communicate. He was known to just sink, appearing inexpressive. Stephanie would often scream out of anger, or cry. Tom was abrupt in his display, but nonetheless calm. He made it through by being physically active, whether through football or beating somebody up. A questionable way out, surely, and one that Daniel wished to put-on, but only actually happened to execute a few times later.

After that accident when he fell down the stairs, things have been sufficiently different. Stephanie slowly began to tap into her new role of partially maintaining the household, Tommas was making sure to spend some more time at home, and their father seemed to be less commanding. Daniel didn’t get to notice those things at first, and to be frank; it has taken him a long time to bare anything other than his own alterations. 

The voices were less prominent, but still audible. Yet every time he started to scream, either Tom or his dad came to snap him out of it. They would shake his arms with violence and if that didn’t help, they would start to scream, begging him to stop. Mostly they just locked him in a tight embrace, worried above anything else that if they set him free, he’ll end up being a threat to his own life.

Teachers at school kept asking questions, but as before Daniel found it impossible to speak about what has happened, afterwards he was simply afraid. _They’ll take you some place else._ It was tough being home, but he imagined it must have been tougher somewhere else. Before Charlie and Ross died, before his mom died, he liked to think that the world was his to own. That one day he’ll step into it, empowered by its width, and he’ll go on to thrive. He watched National Geographic and made lists of places he wanted to visit on every continent. He thought about views, smells, paintings, people––oh, and people he thought about the most. He wanted to see different skin colours, and hear different languages. He wanted to try different foods. He wanted to fly a plane. He wanted to cross countries by train, by bike, by car. But after they died, after all that has happened within those past months, he realized that he didn’t want to see the world. He didn’t think it was a place for him. This world.

He was sinking; from nightmares to sleeplessness, from insomnia to tantrums, from tantrums to muteness. He was the opposites within himself and once he learned how to cling onto one side, the steady surface has slipped from under his feet, leaving him adrift. He found solace, when he was motionless, when he pretended he did not occupy the space that he physically did occupy. He found solace, when he kept staring into a singular point, for hours. He learned to control his thoughts, his tears. He told himself: _you must find a way._

It wasn’t something he planned to do. It wasn’t something he promised he’d do. One day––a day very similar to any other day in his recent life––he stopped speaking altogether, but then again, it wasn’t something highly unusual. He’s had many days during which he did not say a word. 

He heard Steph asking him questions in the morning, but he did not answer them. In school, he lowered his head, did not even provide a semi-interested glance. In the evening, Tom asked him if something was wrong, and he laughed, nearly, on the inside. He laughed not because everything _was_ wrong, but because his older brother asked this question in tone indicating that there were words large enough to describe the wrongfulness of everything surrounding him. 

The third day, his father stepped in. “ _Goddammit, Daniel, what’s up now?”_ But Dan only smiled in response. A smile so gentile and fragile, so fault, he felt tears in the corners of his eyes. But that, that he learned to control some time sooner.

They all thought he was rebelling against something. They all thought it was a way to provoke action, to reach a certain result, and so, they all behaved accordingly to what they suspected he wanted to achieve. Tom was wiggling between being worried and fuming. Stephanie wept occasionally and after weeks of trying, his father resumed to repeated physical violence. Then, they just gave up.

His teachers, however, imposed a contradictory, lengthier approach. First, they showcased concern. They asked about his situation at home. They asked for his father to come. They have given him an empty notebook to write in, to keep a diary if he felt like it, which he hasn’t. Then, they were trying to convince him. They would tell him that communication is key to any issue solving. They would tell him that if he were to grow into a full-encompassed adult one day, he would have to start speaking eventually. At last, they began to threat him. _“Daniel, you are a brilliant student and I’m sure that academically you’re still reaching above the highest standard, but I can’t accept this passive behaviour. Some of your marks are actually based on class participation.”_ He took out his notebook then, a pen, and he wrote. _“So fail me.”_

It wasn’t a protest and it wasn’t a show. He never felt like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t. Although, few times he caught himself standing in front of a mirror, thinking: if I want to say something now, I can. He would open his mouth slightly, try to whisper a word, two words, but there was not a syllabi coming forth. He would stare down his vague expression, and he would think thoughts with such lack of clarity, he couldn’t even recall them seconds after they have passed.

He was very sad, and very tired. The simplest of things would drain his energy; walking to school, having to go up and down the stairs, sitting in class, listening, maintaining eye-contact. People intimidated him before, but now, he could barely stand being among them. He didn’t like it when people moved too fast around him, when they leaped forward too hastily. He walked down school corridors feeling their stares, hearing their whispers. Most of them didn’t even bother to whisper.

_Look at that weirdo. Look at his face. Have you been crying, Agger? Listen guys, don’t stand too close to him. My mom told me he’s cursed. Yeah, Markus, he’s cursed. If you get too close, he may pass it on to you. Ew. Who would want to be like him?_

Sometimes, he would turn around and he would look at them. It was boys and it was girls. Sometimes, it was a group and sometimes they came in duos. Rarely alone. He traced them down with his blank stare, now and then fixing a smile.

But fixing a smile was a temporary amend; a gesture that scared them off for not long enough. What set Daniel for good was when he brought a jackknife to school, and awaited the most faultless occasion. A group of same boys, the ones that caught him after classes long, long months ago, encircled him during a lunch break. He was leaving bathrooms, mentally prepared to face them at any time. The plan was simple and he carried it out with ultimate precision. Once they approached him, he gave them some time to be verbally abusive. Then, he gave them permission to push him around. He allowed one heavy kick above the waist, but it hurt. It hurt, because after the accident his side hasn’t fully recovered and his ribs were in pain, even when he donned the most innocent of positions. That kick got him furious, and so he snapped. He quickly hung a shoulder over one of the boy’s neck, and he began to choke him, resisting his wriggles. As they all hunched forward to help, he took out the jackknife from his pants pocket and opened it, pulling it centimeters away from the boy’s cheek. Their mouths dropped, and they all stood motionless, in shock. 

“Don’t do anything stupid, Agger,” one of them said, glaring.

Daniel was pressing the boy’s body hard against his chest, his hand still close to his cheek. He wasn’t letting go, although he felt his palm shaking. 

“Leave him alone, do you understand?”

He pressed the tip gently against his cheek, barely touching the skin, but the boy howled in panic. It was seconds, not even a minute, after which he released him, harshly pushing him away. He fell down, but the rest of the boys gathered around him, yanking him up. Dan was still standing by the wall, breathing out heavily. He knew it was down to two options now. Either they would leave him alone, for good, or they would beat him up to death.

“You are nuts, Agger,” said the one he held captive for those few minutes, “you and your family. Fucking nuts. Stay away from everybody.”

Then, just before he turned away, he spat in Dan’s direction.

They did leave him alone in the end, although Daniel kept bringing the jackknife to school for long weeks after. Just in case. And just as he hoped for, he became oblivious.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PART II is a page away. 
> 
> Thank you for reading this.


	19. PART II

 

 

**#8 Prelude**

 

 

 

Just as years were passing, Daniel didn’t think he has changed that much. Not even his birthdays, New Years Eve’s or certain milestones––graduations, swimming wins, and math competitions––were occasions for reflection.

When he saw himself in the mirror, he noticed various changes. There was a sure abundance of freckles on his face and he felt that each day a new pair appeared. His hair got a shade darker and curlier past the age of thirteen. He was taller and taller. Skinnier, too, but he blamed excessive swimming trainings for that. 

He began to practice some time after his mother’s death. He was ten. He didn’t like it too much at the beginning, but after a while he realized that prolonged trainings were what helped him sleep better. While he was in the water, he couldn’t hear the voices. There was nothing else, but the sound of liquid, as odd as it sounds. Then, there was his trainer. “ _To have a shot at being an Olympic swimmer, I think you started about three years too late. Shame. We could have made use of your long arms, long legs and those long, ugly feet. No offense of course, Daniel. Look at mine if you want to feel better._ ” He never did, but he smiled then, thinking that she might have had ugly feet too, but she was still not an Olympic swimmer. (One thing about not speaking was that some of his best clap backs never went public.)

Swimming had other advantages. Most of people he didn’t want to encounter at school were busy practicing other sports or just fooling around after classes. Having a hectic timetable allowed him to minimize chances of running into schoolmates he preferred not to run into. Swimmers were individuals; they minded their own business. Once they realized that Daniel wasn’t in it for the prize, trophy and wins––it seemed that he always won by chance though, with a touch of nonchalance––they excluded him from the competitive victim target. He never imagined himself a professional sportsman, although the more he won, the more rumours had it he was going to become one.

Daniel actually did not know who he wanted to become. He was a clever boy and that cleverness he remembered Ms. Sunne describing to his mother only augmented, as years gone by. In middle school, his physics teacher filed another proposal to the principal to move him a grade higher given his extraordinary skills. The principal disapproved, resting his final opinion on Daniel’s communication inabilities, him being socially deficient. He claimed that although Dan is a bright boy, his student’s profile is not complex, not holistic enough. It was something that Daniel translated as: you’re smart, but you’re a bit of a psycho, and we can’t allow that to be emphasized. In different circumstances perhaps that could have been hurtful. He was aware that it was a blatant discrimination, but a large part of him, if not him _entirely_ , did not care.

As he went on to accomplish certain things throughout his life, many things to be honest, he found himself in a constant state of indifference. When he entered swimming competitions, he swam to his highest potential not because he particularly wanted to win, but because from early on he was taught to do things with appropriation, with regard, with care. Math competitions were different, because he already possessed a level of mastery. When he sat down to take tests, those things were clear to him. He did them fast, because that was how his skills operated, not because his competitiveness driven him. 

In fact, below well-manifested layers of his, Daniel was apathetic. There were days, if not weeks, that he found it troubling to leave the bed. What typically sparked his motivation was the image of his mother, caving in inside her bedroom. Dan had that idea, absurd in many ways, that if you spend too much time in bed, it will devour your powers. He was never much of a sleepyhead anyway, but having this memory of his mother rolled between the sheets, eyes dark and skin grey, served as a quick turn-off. For all he knew, it was a primitive reasoning; a bed will not have you commit suicide, but he was afraid of that floating, shadowy presence. Afraid that he will become one physically, since he already was one emotionally.

That was why he picked up swimming in the first place. He needed to move. After years of practicing, he realized that physical exercise was probably what kept his sanity in tact. It was tiring, his body ached, but it has also tired out the voices; tired out the sorrow. He knew that if he wanted to, he could scream under water and nobody would hear him, but he didn’t want to scream anymore. That raging, infuriated, hopeless part of him was gone, and the one that he grew to build on its remains left him lifeless, but nonetheless willing to live. And that, that he considered his greatest achievement. 

Daniel fascinated people. He was still much of an outcast––ostracized, often mentioned with aversion, to some fearful. Yet, after all those years there was a bubble that cultivated around him, creating an image, or more precisely a variety of them, that he had little idea existed. Some maintained beliefs of him being cursed; maybe not in a demonic kind of way, but surely labeling him as a leper. Some stretched it further and dragged his family into it. Many years after, his mother’s suicide was still a topic that got everybody heated. They linked many of his family affairs to it. They blamed many of their failures on her departure. The father loosing one of his jobs, Tommas causing a string of brutally violent accidents in high school, Steph clinging to everything and everyone for the tiniest bit of attention. Even if majority of those assumptions were incorrect, they took a life on its own, and entertained people. The Aggers. Living in that lonely house near the forest. A magnet to indefinable tragedies. Why?

But Daniel. He was something else. While he attended elementary school and was surrounded only by kids from the village, the attitudes came in moderate shape. That has changed when he began middle school and had to travel to a largely populated place, as his village had no resources to provide education on a level higher than primary. His middle school was attached to the high school he later then attended, and so the multitude of stories went on.

Never to his face, but many called him a genius. Some with certain degree of reluctance, others with awe. Those that didn’t ridicule him feared him. Many couldn’t understand how somebody so brilliant, could be so defective. There were rumours about him. That he learned to read just at few months old, that there were schools from all over the Europe trying to pull him in, that a severe throat illness caused him to loose voice, that he lost it way before his mother’s death. Most of straight-A students envied him. He was a natural. Surely, he did put quantities of effort into his studies, but not on the comprehension level. And just when they could catch up on him, offering larger quantities of effort than his, what they envied the most was how he carried himself. They mistook his indifference and apathy for arrogance and smugness. They were ferociously awaiting the smallest slip, and when it occasionally happened, and Dan would still remain as unfazed, they created stories of ridiculous calibre. Nobody could decode him.

There was one thing that often got swept under in the midst of piecing his persona together _._ He had a friend. A best friend, even. She was a girl and her name was Lisel. They first started interacting, when Dan was assigned to pair with her during math classes. She was horrible, and he was excellent. They worked together the entire semester, and when that semester ended, Daniel still kept the partnership going. He taught her everything. 

Then, after Ross and Charlie, after his mother, when people, although there weren’t that many of them, started pulling away from him, she was the only person that stuck. At first Daniel thought it was because of math, because she depended on him. When he told her he wouldn’t be able to tutor her anymore, she still kept coming. She made him stay after classes, even if only to stare at each other in silence. When he stopped talking, Lisel was the only person that didn’t ask why; she was the only person that didn’t try to convince him to talk. One day, she just handed him a piece of paper, a pencil, and said, _“You’ll write.”_ He appreciated her more than she could ever know.

Years after, when he still wasn’t talking and she was still horrible at math, he tutored her. He took her textbooks twice a week and left her notes and papers with explanations, tasks; with concepts and strategies that he considered best guidance he could offer. Apart from that, he never told her anything. He never asked her for anything. He knew she had a devoted crowd of friends that he did not belong to, even though she sometimes tried to persuade him into socializing with them. He refused every time.

The thing was: she was madly in love with him, and he was blind. He wasn’t blind to her attractiveness, because that was an obvious variable. She was the kindest, brightest, prettiest girl he knew, but he simply didn’t come to experience what others at his age had. His idea of affection was distorted. He didn’t think anybody could be interested in him, and that was his blindness. Daniel thought of everything that Lisel did as a sweet representation of their friendship, not a patient allocation of her feelings for him. He knew about love and romance from various means of art, but he never expected to find it anywhere beyond it. He was aware that humans shared greater feelings. He was aware that love could be chemicals, but it also could be chance. 

But he was a strip of wounds, a paranoid mind, a compulsive pattern maker, an overthinker. He communicated externally by writing only. He was what others named him. _Who would want to be like him?_ And so he asked: who would want to be with him?

 

 

 

**#9 1-1**

 

 

 

Daniel got to know Lukas when he was seventeen years old, and Lukas was his brother’s age. He was twenty-one. Dan remembered him from way before, perhaps saw him for the very first time, when he was just eleven, twelve or thirteen––he couldn’t tell precisely, his perception of time was mostly a lapse.

It was the beginning of summer. Dan had his final classes that day, overheard everybody talking about their summer plans. He was sitting in the back of a classroom, doodling in his notebook, carefully listening to the strands of enthusiastic conversations. Those classes seemed to be purposeless, as teachers allowed themselves to be dragged into dialogue; their sole priority to mark attendance at some point of the lesson. Daniel didn’t mind. 

After classes he biked home, despite having Lisel ask him tirelessly to hang out with her and some of her friends. They were going to the big bonfire, which could have been nice given the encouraging weather conditions, but he wasn’t the biggest fan of flames. He never saw the house burning, but every time he attended those bonfire hangouts, he kept thinking about Ross and Charlie. Their death and then, his mother’s death, as these two events inevitably coincided. Daniel dedicated a large amount of his time, his energy, his life in the end, to fight against memories. To fight against what his imagination came to create. The voices were no longer hostile, but still remained a narration, and so, he tried his hardest to avoid situations that could possibly serve as a channel for their expansion. Dan was aware of how utterly pointless this endeavour was. If he was so dedicated, he should have left his house years ago. This village––he should have abandoned it as well. He even planned it many times. Throughout the years, he saved up his pocket money, travel maps, but he lacked courage. He never made it further than the train station.

“Dan!” he heard his brother yell coming from the kitchen, as he closed the front door. “Don’t be taking your shoes off. We’re going somewhere!” 

That wasn’t a strange thing for Tommas to say. Rarely, but they spent some time together. It was similar arrangement to the one they have shared when they were just kids, only that now they were older, and Daniel wasn’t speaking at _all_. One of Tom’s friends would usually pick them up in his car and they would drive around the village, then other villages, if they had to pick somebody else. He would sit in the back, staring outside the window. His brother’s friends would hardly take notice of his appearance. Some of them didn’t even say hi. Years before, Tommas tried defending them. _“You know, they don’t really know how to behave around you. Cause even if they say hi, then what are you gonna do? Take one of your small pads and write back? Fucking funny.”_ Years after, he gave up on defending them, even though Daniel didn’t ask for any explanations to begin with.

This time nobody came to pick them up. As they left the house, Tom told Dan that they were going to see Lukas. “You remember Lukas, right? That artsy nutbag––”

Daniel started nodding his head and Tom immediately closed his mouth. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he understood Dan’s language better than anybody else. “He came back from Copenhagen for the summer. He studies art or some painting bullshit like that? Whatever. He’s into inking now. He promised he’d finish my tattoo.” 

He remembered Lukas, because among his brother’s friends he was the only one to always acknowledge Daniel’s presence. He greeted him, if Dan was around, even if not in the same room. “ _Tommas, is anybody home? Oh, Dan? Hi Dan!”_ He always smiled. He joked around. At least, he did joke around those few times when he came over to their house, but Daniel never saw him in any of the cars. Daniel never came across him during bonfire hangouts. Once his brother turned eighteen and it was time to consider applying to universities, he often heard him say something like “ _I have zero interest in humanities. I can’t draw for shit. Not like Lukas, anyway. Can’t do math like you, Danny, so? What would I apply for? It’s not like we even have the money to send me any further than this place._ ” 

Then, a year later, Tom sometimes would throw a comment about few of his friends that left the village. Lukas was one of them. Dan remembered and categorized all of Tom’s remarks. He had a collection of his brother’s friends neatly stocked inside of his brain, but Lukas had a separate spot. Lukas the one that says hi.

He was waiting for them in his garage. Organizing stuff. It was more than two years now since the last time that he saw him, and Dan could tell easily how much he has changed. “You brought the smart one with you, huh? Hi, Daniel! Fuck, you’re really tall now.”

“He’s a walking misery,” Tom retorted, side-eyeing Dan with a flat smile. “I keep telling him he’s too skinny. One day the pool is just gonna drown him.”

“Stop being a whining bitch, Agger,” Lukas said with an overly sweet smile, and then turned around to grab two chairs, pushing them in their direction. As they sat down, Lukas stood in front, taking out a pack from his jeans pocket, sliding a cigarette between his lips. Before he lit it, he said with a crooked smile, “Welcome to my studio.”

That same day, Tommas and Lukas discussed matters concerning the tattoo; design most of all, but also safety precautions, that Tom doubted Lukas was able to provide given the not-so-sterile state of the garage. In the end, they reached a consensus, planning to finish inking within a week. When they were leaving, Lukas said after all, “Dan if you want to come too, don’t think twice about it. Your little brother may need a hand to hold.”

“Shut it, you stupid,” Tom answered, shaking his head, but Daniel was already smiling. “Yeah, you shut it too,” he added, seeing Dan’s goofy face.

This summer, they both landed a gig at the chopping spot on the other side of the forest. Tom openly hated it. “ _You know how fucking useless this job is? This is twenty first century. They have machines to chop the wood, but no. We have to be chopping it with our bare hands. Well, and the axe too.”_ Daniel didn’t understand why Tom hated it that much. Yes, it was mundane. Yes, it was exhausting. But his brother had the physique for it, and didn’t have anything better to do anyway. They were also paying them fairly well, but even if they weren’t though, it wasn’t as if they had a variety of options to choose from. Better job opportunities were settled in bigger villages, but travelling there was an issue. They needed to work, so regardless of hard feelings exhibited, they both showed up at the field at six in the morning. 

During the first week of summer, one day right as they have finished working in the afternoon, Daniel accompanied Tom to his first tattoo “appointment”. Lukas was already waiting for them in the garage, as they arrived. The space was much cleaner, and so it seemed to be bigger than what Dan remembered of it. As his older brother sat in the chair, Dan stayed at some distance, looking around the place.

He definitely wasn’t snooping around, but there was a part of him that enjoyed, in the purest form, to rummage through things. Ever since he was little, he considered himself curious. Naturally, we were all curious once, at the beginning, where the world appeared to be grand and endless. Then, little by little, that curiosity urged and evolved, eventually turning into something that rarely made us at least eager. In fact, Daniel was baffled by how many of the people surrounding him were actually behaving as if they had it all figured out. He felt that as the older he got, the lesser he knew. That was why liked to observe––he hoped for answers. That was why he paid attention to people’s belongings, their gestures, some of their accidental words. A large part of him didn’t care, for anything; a larger perhaps cared too much.

Lukas’ garage was in many ways plainly similar to garages of other people. It had a touch of messiness; half-open boxes, cans of food, jars with marmalade wrapped in paper, bikes pinned, some other sports equipment. They didn’t have a car, so there was plenty of space in the center, then crowds of stuff against the walls. There were paintings, too. He noticed them at last, because subconsciously he avoided having contact with anything able to initiate an influx of memories. Dan immediately recalled the rows of paintings owned by Ross, many of which he painted himself. He thought he was being a fool. A painting can be such an ordinary item, but it ubiquitousness shouldn’t cause pangs of anxiety. Ross was the first person in Daniel’s life to introduce art to him in such proximate relation. Whenever he saw a piece, he asked, what would Ross think about it? Then, what would Ross want _me_ to think about it? A soft voice inside of his head murmured: _believe in what touches you_. 

“Dan,” he turned abruptly, as he felt somebody’s rushed grip on his arm. “The fuck did you go?”

He didn’t know what his brother was talking about. 

“In your head, I mean. You completely––”

“Wish I had that skill, too,” Lukas interrupted, his tone of voice ironic. He was cleaning up the spot. “To zone out on your bullshit, Agger.” 

Tom shook his head. “I regret signing up for this so badly.” 

Dan moved his head slightly to the side, in a questioning gesture. “I forgot how much I want to puke every time I see a needle. No, for real. It feels as if my chest is just falling out of my body.”

“Told you, Dan, you’d have to hold his hand.”

“Oh, fuck you, Lukas.”

And after that, shortly, they left. 

Few days later, on the weekend, Tom told Dan in the morning that he has changed his mind and won’t do final extensions to his tattoo. He was supposed to meet up with Lukas two more times, but he cut back on one meeting, deciding it all wasn’t worth the pain, although he was still down to finish what they have started. He asked Daniel to meet him at Lukas’ place same time in the afternoon, and then he was gone to do things Dan had little idea about.

Late afternoon he showed up at the garage, leaving his bike on the short driveway. He noticed his brother wasn’t there.

“Hi, Dan” Lukas said, briefly looking over his shoulder.

 _Hi,_ Daniel responded inwardly. 

“Where’s Tom? You guys are never late.” 

_I don’t know. Wasn’t he supposed to be here?_

Dan walked inside, standing behind Lukas, peeking at him sketching. He stood there for a while, until the other turned around.

“Sorry. I really needed to finish that. Otherwise the ideas just disappear.” 

_It’s okay._

“Did he bail? I think he bailed. What a piece of ass.” 

Dan smiled.

“Take a seat over there. We can wait for him. Maybe he’s just running late.”

 _Sure._  

Dan sat down in what was supposed to serve as a professional tattoo studio chair, but was something in-between, with surely doubtful credibility to uphold anything close to being professional. 

He didn’t know where to look, or what to do. It was rare for him to be alone in the same room with a guy, who wasn’t his brother or his father. 

Lukas took out a pack. “I’m trying to quit,” he explained, as he gracefully lit up a cigarette.

Daniel gave him a glance of ridicule.

“I know. It’s bullshit.” He took three quick puffs, and then exhaled. “I think you need to be radical when it comes to quitting. Or else, it’s not happening.” He took another drag. “Are you radical, Dan?” 

He had that habit of wanting to look behind his shoulder, to check if the question directed, albeit to him, was reaching the appropriate recipient. That was, because people never asked him questions of such kind. People made sure to ask him questions that were easily approachable; to which he could nod, or shake his head, or shrug his shoulders. He sometimes thought they just didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable, and then he understood that _they_ didn’t want to feel uncomfortable. The whole process of giving out a lengthier response meant taking out a notebook or a piece of paper during a casual talk, writing, them waiting, then them reading, sometimes asking if he can rewrite––he had awful handwriting––it wasn’t something that bothered him, but he noticed it bothered everybody else. 

“Did you find anything interesting the other time?”

Dan tilted his head, but soon realized that Lukas didn’t interpret it as an invitation to expand on his question. Yet he couldn’t bring himself up to reach for a paper and write.

“I saw you looking at stuff around here,” he finally elaborated. “When I was colouring Tom’s eagle.”

 _Oh._  

He turned to look at the paintings.

“Them? Really? I thought you found some six year old weed that I’ve been hiding here ever since I was fourteen.”

Dan smiled. 

“I don’t like them. The paintings, that is. Then again, I don’t like anything I do.”

_I can relate._

“I don’t even paint that much, really. I don’t have any impressive ideas. Not even shitty ideas. Then I have some mediocre, you know. Then, I paint. Then, I don’t like what I paint, so I store it here.” 

_They’re not mediocre._

“But you just have to keep doing it. Keep painting. Keep doing your thing. If you believe in it, then do it. That’s what I say.”

_What if you don’t believe in anything?_

“Then again, I say a lot of bullshit, I’m aware, so you know… Want a cigarette? I think I’m gonna smoke another one.”

_I never smoked before._

“Or nah, don’t smoke. You’re too young for this.”

Dan rolled his eyes.

“Or just old enough?” He chuckled.

Lukas opened the pack and encouragingly moved the hand in Daniel’s direction, and Dan didn’t hesitate. He took a cigarette, thinking it was rather slender. He put it slowly between his lips, and when he looked up, he noticed Lukas had been staring at him. He reached out for a lighter.

“Inhale slowly.” 

_Inhale slowly._

“Then exhale.” 

_Exhale._

“If you feel like there’s death in your lungs, you’re doing it right.”

Daniel gave him a small smile, and then followed his instructions. Soon after, a strong flavour hit his throat and as he deeply inhaled, the back of his mouth began to burn, the smoke filling his nostrils.

Lukas was laughing. “You don’t seem to be that delighted about it.”

Dan shrugged his shoulders.

“Take it easy.” 

And he did. Few more inhales later, Daniel found himself enjoying the in-and-out sequence. He was feeling dizzy, but awfully alert at the same time. He didn’t know if he liked the taste of it, but he surely didn’t mind it. 

They were sitting in the cloud of smoke, close to each other. Warm, wide stretches of light were entering the garage, lighting up the front. It was quiet out there on the road, and only some bare sounds of summertime were audible. Kids were screaming in the far end, their laughter beaming. Birds were singing, mostly in singular notions. There was a steady blow of wind, bringing in the smells of what blossomed around. In that very moment, Daniel thought he was happy.

“I don’t think your brother is coming,” Lukas said after a while. “It’s been over thirty minutes now.” 

Dan didn’t even notice the passage of time. He nodded his head. 

“Stay, though,” he added. “If you want to, of course.”

He wanted to stay. He _actually_ wanted to stay. 

“We can hang out here. Or go upstairs, but my room is a complete mess. I’m warning you.” 

_Whatever you want._

Lukas turned around, watching the driveway for few minutes, then he turned back to face Daniel, his arms shrugging. “I don’t really think he’s coming. Jesus, he could have called. I’m betting he’s shagging somebody now.” 

 _Probably._  

Eventually, they closed the garage and went inside. Lukas told him that his mom went to Copenhagen for the weekend to visit some relatives. He was silent about his father, but Daniel knew from Tom that he died three years ago. They went upstairs to his room and as much as the format of the house seemed to resemble Agger’s, the vibe was much different. Although Daniel always liked other people houses better.

“You know that I haven’t changed this place one bit after I graduated from high-school?”

As Lukas started to organize his place mostly by throwing things from one place to another, Dan stood by the door, sort of absorbing the view. There was a lot to take in. A lot of mess, that was one thing, but then, the rest was something that Daniel couldn’t immediately classify. 

“Well, okay. It’s not _that_ long, but still. This room tells you everything that’s fucked up about being a teenager.”

He paused. He tilted his head.

“Yeah, sort of what you’re going through now.” 

Then, he hesitated. “No. I mean. I’m not trying to imply that I actually know what you’re going through. I don’t know _you._ But––” 

He paused, his mouth half-open.

“I sound like an idiot, don’t I? 

Daniel smiled. 

“That’s a yes, then.” 

And Daniel smiled even wider.

The thing about his room was that it was violently dramatic, in every sense. One wall was stripped of plaster and bare bricks showed, some painted in purple, some painted in yellow. Daniel thought it was the ugliest combination manageable. There were three armchairs standing next to each other, pressed against another wall. This one got plaster on it, even decent paint. It was white. Semi-white. Dan asked himself: couldn’t he just get a sofa? That wall was almost entirely covered in A4 notebook paper with pen sketches of oddly shaped human beings on it. Later he noticed they all exchanged sentences closed in cloud-like bubbles. So, was it a comic book?

As Daniel sat down on the verge of his king-size bed, he noticed that on the opposite side Lukas stored old Looney Tunes cartoons on VHS. He was dumbfounded. Were people still watching VHS?

There was a small desk, fitting into the corner, but it was impossibly crowded with books and brushes and paint. He figured Lukas must have barely spent time there. He also had a lot of movie posters, but these were gracing the opposite wall. _Good Fellas._ Daniel watched that. _Bugs Bunny._ Bugs Bunny? Who puts Good Fellas next to Bugs Bunny? It wasn’t a judgement. Daniel thoroughly enjoyed both. It was a question of coherence. 

“I wanted to be everything,” Lukas said wistfully, sitting next to Dan. Their arms were brushing. “I wanted to play drums. I wanted to be an activist. I wanted to be a chemist. I wanted to have my own blockbuster. I wanted to be a painter.” He paused. “Kinda still want to be one.”

Daniel finally turned his head to look at him.

“I guess I like coming back here so much, because it brings me back to that time, when I honestly thought it was all possible. That you could be whoever you wanted to be, you know? I mean, I strongly believe that you can be whoever you wanna be at any point in your life, but maybe there is a certain window. Time-window. And when it passes you, that’s it. Shit’s done.” 

It was a line of reasoning that Daniel never heard anybody voicing out loud before and ever since he was little, he was taught about a linear succession of life––that you were supposed to do one thing in your life, and you were supposed to be good at it. That you were supposed to be pragmatic, driven by action, always sure of your course. Daniel already knew what was going to happen to him. He was going to finish school, and then he was going to land a job, somewhere, regarding something, and then if he was lucky enough to find somebody willing to tolerate him and overlook his deficiencies, he was going to get married and have kids, although he didn’t want to have kids and he didn’t want to get married. 

Dan was fond of this room mostly because it symbolized the complete opposite of what he was asked to believe in. There was no space for his apathy, for his impassiveness, for executing life as it was a checklist of activities ready to mark off. For the first time, he came across something that resembled, in the slightest, what Ross and Charlie introduced him to––that you could have certain items and trust in what they represented, that you could trust yourself with what you wanted to represent, that there was no linearity, but infinite possibilities––and for the first time such vivid memory of them didn’t cause a trembling ache inside of his chest.

“You zone out so much it looks like you transfer to some parallel dimension,” Lukas pointed out with a soft smile.

And what Dan did, was that he reached for the stack of papers sitting on the nightstand, he took the pencil lying nearby and wrote, _Anywhere better than here._

Lukas laughed. “Oh, I’m sorry this place is not living up to your standards.”

Dan lowered his head and began scribbling. _Ha. You know this isn’t what I meant._

“Is ‘ha’ supposed to stand for you laughing?” 

Daniel donned a slightly offended expression, although he was genuinely far-off being offended. 

“Alright, then. I guess I just have to make better jokes. Can I expect a double ‘ha’? Have that ever happened?” 

Dan was smiling, and after a little moment, his head dropped and he was staring into the ground, embarrassed by how much he was enjoying their banter. 

They were silent for a moment, their arms still touching against each other. “I get it, though,” Lukas spoke up, but Daniel didn’t have what it took to look him in the eyes then. “This place hasn’t exactly treated you right.”

He didn’t know what to say.

“I’m sorry about your mom,” he sounded reserved, as if he wasn’t entirely sure it was the right thing to say, the right moment to say it. “I’m sorry about you, too, but not with pity, Dan. Don’t get me wrong,” he paused, lowering his gaze. “It’s just fucked up. All of it.” 

 _All of it_ , he repeated inside of his head. _It is._

And just when Daniel found himself willing to write something back, there was a loud and irritating buzz coming from downstairs. Lukas flinched.

“Jesus, who is it,” he stood up, making his way to the large window on the other side. “Oh, of course. It’s your brother. I’ll go get him.”

He quickly disappeared in the hallway, and Daniel heard him run down the noisy, cracking stairs. Then, he heard him open the front door.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” it was his brother. “I was with Sara. You know how she is.” 

He heard Lukas laughing. “Don’t worry about it, Tom. Next time just call or text. We were waiting for you.”

“What?” 

“Me and your brother. We were waiting for you. After a while we decided you probably weren’t coming and just went upstairs to hang out.”

“Oh, fuck it, true. I told him to come here and completely forgot. He stayed with you?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“No, I mean. You know. He doesn’t really––” 

“He doesn’t really talk, I know. It makes me realize how much dumb shit I actually say.”

“Dan!” his brother shouted. “Come downstairs!” 

And he did. 

As he was standing on the last, bottom stair, his brother waived at him awkwardly. “Sorry that you had to wait.” 

Dan shrugged his shoulders.

“Alright, so? Are we still down to do this?”

“Are you even asking? Let’s go.”

It ended up two hours later with Dan sitting down on one of the garage counters, next to Lukas’ necessary tattoo supplies. He was wiggling his legs in the air, watching Tom’s chest getting inked with something close to meticulous artisanship and gentleness. Daniel paid little attention to his brother’s gestures of discomfort, focusing on Lukas’ patience and immersion. How he could transform something so unadorned––a piece of skin in the end––into a colourful and bold imaginary. It made him realize how unconscious he always was of his body, how he considered it merely a tool. As he was sitting down, thinking about it, he came to conclusion that he actually didn’t like his body too much. It was too long, too crooked, too pale, too skinny, too freckled, too hairy (in some places, where being not hairy enough in others), and too plain. He didn’t see the colour of his eyes, the shape of his arms, how his back grew wider, how his jaw became more prominent, how his nose stayed so adorably small after all these years. He saw only what he thought of himself, the qualities he wished he didn’t possess––physical and non-physical ones––and he was almost joyful to discover that they could be hidden.

So, when Lukas jokingly proposed to ink him too, Daniel agreed with an enthusiastic nod, despite Tommas’ immediate disapprobation and as Lukas proceeded with explanation and ideas, Tom kept barging in with comments on how Dan was still underage and would need parental permission. He gave up after a while, realizing how utterly foolish he sounded, mostly because their father couldn’t care less. 

“I’ll leave you my phone number,” Lukas began, as they were getting ready to leave. “And you can text me with ideas and stuff you’re into. We can schedule something, discuss it, and see where it takes us. I’m down, if you are.”

“I’m not liking it at all,” Tom interrupted, reluctance painted all over his already scornful face.

“Nobody’s asking you to like it,” Lukas retorted with a smile, but it was a wry one.

Daniel smiled too. Not because his brother’s final sigh of surrender meant he was getting a tattoo––he would get it anyway, if he wanted to––but because it reminded him of that time, back when they were still young and things weren’t that entirely awful, at least in comparison to now, when he would also tell him. _Nobody’s asking you to like it._

After a while though, Dan wasn’t sure he was getting one. Days were passing, he and Lukas weren’t keeping in touch, and the workload got fairly busy; busy enough to keep his mind from wandering, but not nearly busy enough to stop him from eventually wanting a tattoo. Most of all, he enjoyed the state of hesitance, as for years he only experienced being indifferent in regards to vast majority of events occurring in his life. This was new to him. To consider the consequences of his potential actions, to wonder about abrupt changes that could be applied to his body. One dull evening later, he took out his phone and messaged Lukas. _I want one. Don’t think I want few. But I don’t know what I want._

And that was how things have started. Early mornings until late afternoons Daniel spent alongside his brother on the field, chopping infinite amounts of wood. Then, some evenings he dedicated to Lukas. They were meeting to talk about the tattoo, but always found themselves doing a bunch of stuff that was quite unrelated. Random stuff, mostly. They were re-watching old series on TV2 or browsing through old photo albums. Lukas also got to talk a bit about his family with no deeply affected feelings involved, for which Daniel was somewhat envious. The way Lukas talked, in general, made Daniel somewhat envious too. He didn’t gesture too much and his face wasn’t particularly expressive, apart from some lazy and lopsided grins, but Dan caught himself craving to hear more of his stories, which in reality weren’t stories after all. He would say something, often ask an adorning question, and then he would quickly move further, leaving most of his topics the way you leave a semi-interesting book; open, but prepping to already pick up a new one. Daniel enjoyed his ease, the way Lukas would look him in the eyes, and how his eyebrows furrowed, how he laughed. He enjoyed _him._

Daniel wasn’t supposed to get his arms sleeved. He thought of getting one tattoo only, at most. But then, Lukas began to sketch things that were graphically splendid and abstract and suddenly, through an initial phase of disapproval, he found himself falling for it. Dan liked that the images didn’t tell anything precisely if you took one out of the maze, but altogether they created a tale. A narrative that he knew was missing from his life and one that he hoped could be recreated somewhere along the inked lines.

Lukas thoroughly explained the process to him––from the first dip of the needle, through tattoo dyes and pigments, to the possible messiness of a healing process. How they could wrap it up in few weeks, but how it could also drag through the months. Daniel even quit his job and moved on to pick apples, for much less of a pay, but also for much less of an effort, in order for his skin to heal better through a lower exertion level. He promised the boss he would get back to the chopping field next summer.

Tom sometimes popped in, as Lukas was tattooing him. He smoked few cigarettes, wandered inside the garage, and then was off to do things he rarely wanted to talk about. Lukas knew little about Tommas’ new friends, and Dan never asked.

It didn’t really hurt––the inking. He lied on the chair, eyes half closed, listening to the buzz of the tattoo gun. It was a prickling sensation, at its best, and Lukas made few remarks about Daniel’s high tolerance for pain. What Dan liked the most about it––the pain––was that it has made him so alert, in a way like smoking did. The feeling of having the needle under his skin, that was one thing, but also the wait for their evening sessions, the ticking of hours, so exhaustingly slow. It was becoming clear to him that his anticipation intensified, that he awaited seeing results, but also that he awaited seeing _him._

Through texts they discussed what they missed out on during meetings, but Dan noticed how within time, they have began to talk more about matters not concerning the tattoo. Lukas would throw in certain comments, and Daniel would reply to them, and they would text back and forth until the end of the day, until the next day, almost without an end. When they saw each other, there was no awkwardness, but a follow-up to where they left the conversation going on the screen.

One moment particularly stood out. Lukas have finished tattooing a part of Dan’s upper arm and busied himself wrapping the area in a see-through foil, explaining once again the delicate and exacting procedures of wrap healing. 

Daniel was sitting in the chair, his legs down, nearly touching the ground and Lukas was standing to his side, talking. His hip was pressed against Dan’s thigh, his head lowered, he was focusing on applying the bandage. Daniel was carefully listening to his explanations, although he well memorized the scheme the first time Lukas laid it out for him.

He couldn’t stop staring at his lips. 

And when Lukas finally looked up, done wrapping, he asked him if everything was all right, but Dan only nodded his head in a vague response. 

It wasn’t the first time that he caught himself in a trance, absorbed by Lukas’ features. Dan has already paid attention to his hands and the shape of his fingers, the length of his neck and bobbling of his Adam’s apple, the curve of his lower back when he was bending, how his collarbones remained outlined under the t-shirt.

Every time it has happened, he brushed it off. _I’m just being curious._ But the fact that he has noticed all that, the fact that he memorized it, that he reminisced it, that he felt a hit of longing, as if that was what he always wanted to be looking at, yet never previously had a chance––it frightened him.

Dan had left that session dumbfounded, walking next to his bike instead of riding it. He could give reasons to why he stared at him and his certain body parts before, but today, there were no reasons. And because there were no reasons, he considered it a mistake. A mistake his brain has committed. Unconsciously. Otherwise, it couldn’t be true that he just _wanted_ to look at his lips.

It couldn’t be true not because guys don’t want to look at other guys lips, don’t want to have them between theirs. It couldn’t be true, because it couldn’t be happening to him.

As years were passing and he was a witness to his peers pairing up, in all sorts of ways, he didn’t think of himself as a person repelled by others. In fact, he was present to the changes his female schoolmates were going through and it was easy to notice how they bloomed. But never, not once did he see in them, what he saw in Lukas.

He decided it was nothing. A mistake, really. He was finally getting a friend. He was opening up, bit by bit. Surely he couldn’t imagine showing him the house, his runaway spot, his long time, maybe only secret, but he was gradually stripping himself out of some boundaries, and he thought it must have been that.

A part of him knew it wasn’t, a part of him knew he could never have fooled himself. If he could, he would have deprived his tired self of all the sorrows, but instead he remained acutely wary of them.

When he made it home that evening, he decided it was the last time that he saw him. He promised himself he wouldn’t see him again. Not for the tattoo, not for anything. He knew Lukas would understand. He was sure he wouldn’t think twice about it.

Yet, after a week of not responding to any of his texts, of avoiding the street he lived on, of pushing away all the nagging thoughts, he realized the approach he took on has turned him from being just aware to idiotically psychotic.

He couldn’t stop thinking about him.

One thing he felt for sure and it was fear. He felt it in overwhelming measures. It was clenching his lungs, sucking on his oxygen, quickening his breath. _It couldn’t be happening to him._

He wasn’t like that. He wasn’t attracted to guys. 

When Dan thought about it, about being attracted to guys, he could only hear what he heard ever since he was small. Ever since he met Ross and Charlie. He heard his father’s remarks, his brother’s, he heard, after all those years, what he heard during the weekly kitchen meetings, all very gone by now. Most importantly, he knew what happened to Ross and Charlie and _why_ it has happened to them.

In the midst of thinking about Lukas, thinking about what it meant that he was thinking about him, he found himself doing one thing he tried hardest not to do––despise himself. And it was easy to despise himself. It was one thing he knew how to do without a fault, without a question. One thing nobody ever stopped him from doing, and even if somebody did, he wouldn’t find a reason good enough to stop. After all, he was a center point of all horrible occurrences that have marked his life and the lives of people closest to him. Although he never physically participated in some of the incidents, he felt as though he had an undoubted chance of preventing them. He was tormented by the moments in which he could have said something, and within the years, what grew inside of him wasn’t regret in particular, the fact that he could have saved their lives. It was deep-rooted hatred, that he hasn’t done so. He pointed to how weak he was, to his shyness, to always thinking twice. He pointed to not being like his father, like his brother. He pointed to being too much like himself. 

Now, if it was true, if he really wanted to look at Lukas’ lips, if he really wanted to have them between his, if he really was into boys, he felt, as hating himself wouldn’t be enough. 

At some point, he figured it must be a punishment. He considered his probable sexuality a curse bestowed on him, because he allowed for all this to happen, for Ross and Charlie to be gone exactly because of who they were, and now he was like them. 

At the end of a day, it sounded comical even to him. Dan strongly believed that people were born a certain way, that a fixed amount of their traits was already granted to them, yet another one, its equal, was to be produced throughout their life. According to his theory, sexuality wasn’t a curse, it wasn’t a disastrous spell, something you had to treat yourself out of. 

He made a pact. Nobody will ever know about this, because nobody had to know. If that was the case, if he was truly attracted to men, it could stay a secret––he’s already had a few. 

After nearly two weeks, Lukas showed up at his door. Typically, he wasn’t the one to ever get anybody ringing the bell. The same way, he was never the one to pick up their land phone. He couldn’t just pick up, say hi, then turn around and scream, “Steph, Frida is calling, get downstairs!”

But Tom was upstairs, blasting music, and nobody else was home. 

“Hi,” Lukas said straight after he opened the door.

Dan didn’t react. 

“Good. You’re alive. Now I can go,” and just as he turned, Dan grabbed his arm, yanking him around with force stronger he allowed himself to use. He was ashamed of his reaction, didn’t even think he’d react that way. Just as he let go of his arm, they stood staring at each other.

“I wrote to you over and over again.”

_I know._

“I was worried something happened to you. I haven’t even seen Tommas around, and when I messaged him asking if you were okay, because you blew off all of our tattoo sessions, he’s said you disappeared and that you’d be gone for some time. The fuck does that mean that you disappear?”

He couldn’t explain at the moment, and he wondered if he would ever be able to.

“You know what, this isn’t my business. I don’t know why I came. Forget I was here.”

But Dan didn’t stop him this time. He kept standing in the doorway, watching Lukas walk away, his posture disappearing further into the road.

As he shut the door, he immediately looked back over his shoulder to see if his brother was in any proximity, but music was still blasting and Tommas was nowhere in sight. 

He felt stupid, to begin with. He was also embarrassed. A part of him couldn’t believe that Lukas made his way over here, just to check up on him. Some of his words were still loudly ringing inside of his head. _I was worried_ or _I don’t know why I came_ or _The fuck does that mean that you disappear?_  

Daniel found the house a few years ago, just as he was wandering inside the forest on the other side of the village. He abandoned the one behind his house, because it led him too easily to the ruins of 16f. Yet, the house that he often went to, to hide, was very much like 16f and in some odd turn he knew it was exactly why he felt so drawn to it. It was also very much unlike his own house and that was why he chose to stay there.

When Dan came home after his first, two-day disappearance, his father stood screaming in front of his face for long, measured minutes. After the second time, he was beating him up, until Tom fled down the stairs and barged into the kitchen, parting them. He didn’t look at Daniel once, but he spitted words in his father’s direction that meant something like, _“Let him be alone, if he wants to be alone.”_

He never stayed there longer than four days. He always came back home. He never told anybody about it and never had the intention to do so.

He needed the space, relished the size of silence. He imagined the lives of the owners, what their deserted art pieces meant. He desperately searched to find out about their history, but only meandered between the dates signed on the back of the canvases. He read a lot of books there; he brought his homework there. He cried there, too, and tried to scream, but couldn’t.

Despite the obvious traces of some past lives marking the house, it was his and his only space and he didn’t want to share, even its mere existence, with anybody else.

That evening, just hours after Lukas left their doorstep, Daniel texted him. _I’m sorry._ And as much as, in the spirit of a moment, he wanted to write him an elaborated essay on all the hurts and miseries that turned him to what he was today, he couldn’t bring himself to write more.

Instead, he showed up at his garage the next day, but it was shut. He ringed the bell, standing straight and confident, but cursing his self inwardly the moment Lukas’ mother opened the door.

 _What the hell were you thinking?_  

She had a warm smile, and Daniel thought he has seen it before already. “You’re Daniel, right?” she started, her hand reaching out to shake his. “Younger brother of Tommas Agger?”

Daniel nodded his head, forcing himself to look her straight in the eyes, rather than dropping his stare to the shoes. “Pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you. I’d have invited you in, but Lukas is not here. He left for the weekend to Copenhagen to see some of his friends.”

He nodded his head again. “Please come back after the weekend. I know Lukas is supposed to finish your tattoo.” 

Dan smiled.

“I have to go now, but it was nice to finally see you in person.” 

Daniel waved at her, and then after she closed the door, still as he was standing at their porch, he took out his phone and texted Lukas despite not hearing from him after the succinct apology. _I came by your house today. Your mom opened the door. It’s 1-1._

He didn’t know what game were they playing and what was the prize anyway, but he kept smiling even after he finished typing the message. 

Lukas replied promptly. _It’s never 1-1 with me, but have it, Agger. Apology accepted._

Over the weekend, he did his best not to think about the post weekend plan. Every time he felt the rush of excitement, running through his spine, or clenching his chest, he pushed the thoughts away, minimizing their probable cause and explanation. He was still sticking strong to the idea of a mistake, a simple error that had its origins in his loneliness, lack of attention, the fact that it was so difficult for him to be close with anybody and now that he was; that he was no longer so awfully lonely, that there was somebody paying attention, that he was turning to be closer and closer to another person, he was acting strange. Sort of like a defense mechanism approached by his body and mind that was revolting against this new lifestyle.

He wasn’t gay. 

In fact, to prove himself that, he made few abrupt advances towards Lisel, searching for the rush and thrill he felt whenever he was with Lukas, and when it didn’t come, he imitated it. Daniel invited her to accompany him to one of the tattoo sessions, and she came willingly. Lisel was trying to find a common ground with Lukas, approaching him and putting on her most lovable and charming gestures, but Lukas stayed abnormally laconic and uninterested, his entire focus targeted towards the tattoo gun. 

Whenever she came with him, he felt secure and confident. Whenever she smiled and he stared a little too long at her smile, he pointed it out to himself, feeling like he was winning at the most important play-off of his life. He began to touch her, at first briefly and with no apparent reason, to later pull her into hugs or play with her hair. It wasn’t easy for him to be this physically active with somebody, and he always had to fight himself from restraining, crossing his arms, pulling away. He allowed those crisp interactions, but those times when she moved forward to reciprocate, Daniel couldn’t help, but move away, smiling apologetically.

His tattoos were healing impeccably well and he remained scrupulous in taking care of them. Lukas wasn’t sure, whether they would be able to finish all the colouring and additional extensions by the end of summer, but in the middle of August, both of Dan’s arms were already sufficiently covered. Just as they were reaching his wrists, a point that he knew was to be considered as final, he stopped asking Lisel to come. He thoroughly enjoyed her company, but after a while, he realized he enjoyed Lukas’ more. There was an infinite string of remarks that buzzed in his head post this realization, but he was neglectful. 

“I can’t believe we’re almost done,” Lukas told him, as he was preparing the gun, and Dan stood quite far behind him, turning a camera in his hands, one that he picked from an old box in the garage. “Can’t wait to brag about this to the guys I work with in the studio,” there was a genuine happiness audible in his voice, and Daniel could undoubtedly tell how his attitude altered once Lisel wasn’t with them.

Lukas finally turned around. “Oh, this?” he asked, seeing Dan with the camera. “You can have it if you want it.”

Daniel looked up, surprised. He didn’t pick it, because he wanted it for his own. He picked it, because he never held a camera in his hands. They never had one in their house, and now that Dan was thinking about it he realized how odd it was, considered they had all those photo albums gracing the shelves. 

Lukas put the tattoo gun down and walked up to Dan. “It’s quite outdated, given the current technology jump, but it’s gold. Sentimental-gold, I guess,” he took it out of Daniel’s hands. “I got it as a gift, when I was going through my I-want-to-be-a-photographer phase. Turned out, I’ve got little patience for snapping moments. Maybe it will serve you better,” he gave it back to Dan, and once it landed in his hands, he pressed it to his eye, pretending to look for an angle.

“No fucking way, Daniel,” Lukas turned around immediately, shying away from the camera, and Dan smiled, making a promise to catch him at least once before the summer finished.

He put it aside, on the counter, and as much as he wasn’t the one for gifts, he decided to take this one with him. He would have to buy a film for it, wondered if he could get one in their local store, but he was already anticipating snapping his first photo. To make a memory of something, he wouldn’t have to fight to forget a time later.

That evening they have finished the line on both of his wrists and moved to colour the parts they have began colouring before. After a while, the tattoo gun stopped and Lukas looked up in a similar manner he has been looking up for the past weeks, whenever he finished inking Daniel’s arms.

“I’m done for today,” he said, closely examining some of the lines gracing Dan’s forearm. Then he got up, straightened his back and walked to the counter, coming back in few moments, ready to wrap his skin.

While he was doing so, Daniel kept urgently looking away, making sure not to leave his stare on any of Lukas’ body parts. He felt his breath getting heavier, his chest sinking and although he wasn’t speaking, there was something clamping his throat together, so that no verbal expression could come forward. 

“I need to colour here,” he gently pressed his finger against a spot on Dan’s inner arm, moving his touch further, “and here, and there.” 

He looked up and they were staring at each other.

“But that we can do just days before I leave for Copenhagen, so we give your skin some time to heal.” 

Dan nodded his head. 

“I still can’t believe you let me do your sleeves.”

And Daniel couldn’t believe he agreed to let him do his sleeves. 

“I think we should celebrate.” 

And before Dan had a chance to react, Lukas took out a fat, neatly rolled joint. 

“I don’t feel quite responsible presenting it to you like that, and I don’t want to be encouraging you, and I don’t even know if you smoked before, whether you want to smoke now, or ever, but… are you down?” 

Daniel was looking at it, thick between Lukas’ fingers, and he found himself nodding, before he could fully comprehend the meaning of his nod. 

“The issue is that my mom is home and I promised long ago that I dropped this, so?”

Dan reached out for his phone and texted Lukas, since there were no papers available around. _My father has a night shift, Steph is with her boyfriend, and Tommas is with Sara._

There was an initial confusion on Lukas’ face, but then he gave Daniel a large, cheerful smile once the message popped on his phone and half-hour later they were on the other side of the village, entering Dan’s house. 

He never brought a friend home, except for Lisel, but Lisel was also his sister’s friend, so whenever she came around, they spent a substantial amount of time giggling and chattering. He never felt, as though he was obliged to give her his fullest attention, as opposed to now.

As they found themselves inside, Daniel knew it was polite and necessary to offer Lukas something to drink, ask if he was hungry, whether he wanted to watch TV, but as his physical condition prevailed, he also felt anxiety creeping in, impeding his actions. 

Wordlessly then, he took Lukas upstairs, straight to the bedroom he shared with his brother and just as they stepped into it, he realized how contrasting it was to the one Lukas lived in. He felt almost ashamed about its plain and basic demeanour, how emotionless and detached his side of the room came to be. There were no photos, no posters, no brushes, and no art. Only a lone textbook stood on his nightstand: “Molecular Quantum Mechanics: Advanced Application”. Lukas picked it up, nearly as if he was reading Daniel’s mind.

“I don’t even know what the title means,” he was laughing, turning the book in his hands. “Are you going to be this person one day? Introducing ground-breaking concepts to the world that has small knowledge about anything ground-breaking? You know, to people like me.” 

Dan smiled.

“That smile of yours. It’s telling me that I’m an idiot. It’s been actually telling me that for a long time now.”

His smile became larger.

“I wish I had an ounce of a skill to grasp the bare minimum of this.”

Dan quickly turned around and picked up a small notebook from one of the shelves. He began writing, and then passed the note to Lukas. _You do. The problem with most of people is that they never had anybody explain the bare minimum in a way that they could go beyond the bare minimum._

“Interesting,” he murmured, flipping the pages. “So, you’re saying I should sue all my science teachers for not making me a right NASA fit?”

Dan rolled his eyes. 

“And when you’re rolling your eyes… Is that an indication of my idiocy, as well? Or that’s something else?”

Daniel took the book out of his hands, placing it back on the nightstand. He kept smiling.

They sat down on the ground, leaning against Dan’s bed. Lukas took out the joint, and then he took out a lighter. Before he lit it, he got up to open the window. Once he sat down again, Daniel noticed how their arms were pressing against one another––a tiny detail, but one that never skipped his perception.

“So?” Lukas was side-eyeing Dan, rolling the joint between his hands. “Have you ever?” 

He shook his head in a disagreeing manner.

“It’s as simple as smoking a cigarette. Just keep it in your lungs as long as you can, instead of blowing. Then, ease into it.”

Lukas passed him both. “You go first.” 

Dan seemed to be hesitant at a first glance, but then he slid the joint between his lips, lighting up. He inhaled what felt like a smoke of dry, bitter and throat burning fumes, fighting through a desperate need to cough and spit. _Ease into it._

He gave it back to Lukas, but Lukas was a professional and Dan observed with some kind of awe how the thick, little white landed in his mouth, how the blow of smoke could eat up both of them, how Lukas’ head pressed against the verge of Daniel’s bed, as he further exhaled and his entire jawline stayed perfectly outlined. There was something about its rough, un-pretty shape that made Dan want to have an imprint of it, for the rest of his life. 

There was something rough and un-pretty about Lukas, in general. That was how he differed from Lisel’s sweetness and gentleness. A side to him seemed to be quite soft, for example how he smiled when he wasn’t sardonically grinning. A side to him seemed to be quite unbothered, for example how he carried his clothing always a tad too loose, hanging sloppily on one side, rolling his sleeves. But then, there was his intense attentiveness, lip biting tick, prominent cheekbones, the way he stared Daniel down. 

“Hey!” Lukas’ mid-scream woke him up. “That was what I was afraid of.”

Dan immediately looked away.

“You zone out without being high, what’s gonna happen if you do get high?”

He was already high, or so he felt, but there was no breaking the cycle. It was his turn now, and he made it quick. It burned the same way, though, but the hit was stronger. It ran through his nose thrills, somewhere straight to the first layer of his brain, numbing the neurons. Some thoughts were slipping from his reason, while others became strangely reasonable. 

“We need some music,” Lukas was talking. “Otherwise we’ll be drowning in sadness.”

Dan pointed to a large box next to his nightstand, and Lukas half-crawled over there. While he was rummaging through stuff, Daniel took another drag and another drag.

“Wow, you have some decent things here,” Lukas pointed.

 _It’s my mom’s._ He made sure to allow for this word to leave his mind. It was possibly the worst moment for it to come up.

“There’s everything here,” he seemed to be enchanted. 

_There’s more on vinyl._

He moved back to his previous spot, taking the box with him. “Let’s pick something together,” Lukas gracefully took the joint out of Daniel’s hands. “What do you want to listen to?”

But Daniel didn’t know and as a matter of fact, he felt as though he had no available answers to any possible questions. It was as if the entire knowledge he accumulated throughout his life has vanished and surely it could have been a liberating feeling, it was in a way, but being always so brain-reliable made him feel uneasy and groundless the minute he couldn’t rely on his brain. 

Lukas must have ignored his passiveness, because Daniel became alert to the ongoings of reality once the soft sounds of music began to play. He couldn’t tell what it was, despite knowing all the records by heart. 

He lied on his back, staring onto the ceiling.

“Have the last puff,” Lukas ordered, sliding the joint between his lips.

And just as the tips of his fingers touched Dan’s skin, Dan felt warmth spilling through his body. He was high then, no doubt about that, but the heat that came with Lukas’ touch was unlike anything substance induced. Daniel wanted to keep his eyes open, live through it with meticulous attention to detail, so that the minute it was gone, he would be able to replay it and replay it and replay it, until something inside of his head would crack and the link to the memory would be no longer obtainable. 

The touch was brief, lightheaded, coming off as unintentional. The last puff of the joint was nearly like that, too, except it was purely intentional. 

Daniel was fading. There was a loop inside of his chest and he saw himself free falling. The ceiling seemed endless and he spent a ridiculous amount of time trying to figure out why his bedroom had no door, only to realize later that they were lying facing the window, and the door was behind their backs.

The music seemed to be getting louder, but then again he could hear the beating of his own heart clearer too.

“Are you okay?” Lukas’ voice came from afar.

He wanted to hum, but couldn’t. 

And so, in an off response, he turned to lie on his side.

“I still want to know what are quantum molecules.”

Daniel smiled through a haze. 

_Molecular Quantum Mechanics, not molecules._

“What are molecules?”

He opened his mouth to explain. He did that. He opened his mouth.

“Am I a molecule?”

Lukas also turned to lie on his side. They were facing each other.

“I’m actually not that stoned,” he paused. “Though, I say it every time I’m pretty fucking stoned.”

Dan wanted to laugh. 

“There was, you know, this album in the box.”

Dan was confused. 

“It has an old song. The kind of old, they could be playing it on a jukebox. Frankie Valli’s. It was his song.” 

It wasn’t telling him much.

“It talks about this guy, who’s in love with this girl, but he’s been in love with her for a while,” he paused again; he wiped his face with the back of his palm. “And he sings that his eyes adored her.”

They were silent, but Dan recognized a Radiohead song playing in the back.

“He sings that he never lied a hand on her, but his eyes adored her.”

And then, in the strangest of eventualities, Lukas extended his hand and touched Daniel’s cheek. It was a gentle touch, and Dan didn’t expect Lukas to have it. To have something so patient and tender within his fingers, although for the past weeks he has seen him be nothing, but patient and tender; with his skin, with his lines.

His fingers traced across Daniel’s cheek, his forehead, his other cheek only to slowly, delicately outline his lips. Dan lied still and perplexed and when Lukas moved closer, he didn’t move away.

“There is something about you,” he said quietly, with awareness and clarity Dan couldn’t imagine evoking. “And I don’t know what it is, but man, it got me all fucked up.” 

Lukas kissed his forehead. He kissed his cheek, and then he kissed him slightly lower, then right next to his lips in a way that his upper lip was fitting flawlessly with Daniel’s lower lip. But then his head moved away, and in that moment Dan rolled on his back, staring at the ceiling. 

“Sorry,” Lukas blurted out. 

Daniel looked at him then, and smiled. 

“See? I don’t know you,” Lukas got back to lying on his side, then after a while he moved on his back too, “I don’t know why you just smiled.”

And that was the last thing he told him, the last thing Daniel heard him say. Although they didn’t move, didn’t go anywhere in particular, but stayed lying on the carpet of his bedroom for long hours after, they didn’t exchange any further half-dialogues, half-affections. They were both drifting, and once Daniel woke up from his nearly conscious snooze, he realized Lukas wasn’t there, that he left.

He kept the window open, and fully clothed packed himself inside the bed, falling asleep easily.

Daniel got up long hours later, his throat still dry and bitter. As he opened his eyes fully, he noticed Tommas sitting on the opposite bed, staring at him. He ignored him at first, resuming to his typical morning activities, although when he looked at his cell’s display, he saw it wasn’t so early anymore. 

He left the bedroom and headed to the bathroom. Undressed there, brushed his teeth, took a shower, put on a pair of fresh clothing, and got back to their bedroom. Tommas was still sitting on the verge of his bed.

Daniel noticed the textbook on his nightstand shifted, the box with albums by his bed, and not in its regular place. He could still smell weed, but was hoping it was his twisted, far-fetched imagination.

“I saw you yesterday with him,” Tommas said, tone of voice heavy and slow.

Dan turned to look at Tom. “I was with Sara and we got in a fight. I tried to make things better, but she kicked me out. It was late. None of my friends were responding. I came home.” 

Daniel was breathing in long pauses. “I came home, and there was music playing, and you never play music. You stay in your silent, little room here, or god knows where else, but you never play music. Since mom died, you never play music. It bothers me too, so I get it. I hear her voice. _Listen to it on vinyl, please listen to it on vinyl._ ”

Dan wanted to sit down, wanted to face Tommas from the very same position his older brother was facing him, but he couldn’t take a step.

“I go up and the door isn’t shut. I hear him talking. I recognize his voice. He has a very characteristic voice. Something about how he pronounces certain words, and when you hear it, you’re sure, it’s fucking Lukas.” 

Tommas was looking to the sides, noticeably embarrassed. “You were both lying towards the window, you couldn’t see me. That smell of weed was all over, and I got so pissed. I was about to tell him to fuck off. He came with his tattoos, with his cigarettes. You’re seventeen, the fuck do you know, Daniel? You don’t know any better. So I almost barged in, but you two were so high, the music was playing. And he was talking to you and the way he was talking to you, it was so wrong, Daniel. So disgusting. And you were looking at him, and––” 

His voice dropped. He got up.

“Are you out of your fucking mind, Daniel? Tell me, are you?”

He moved closer, they were two steps away from each other, maybe three. 

“He was kissing your fucking face and you were lying there and it was so fucking disgusting for fuck’s sake. You’re my little brother and––”

His shoulders dropped then, in a gesture of defeat. “Are you gay? Are you into guys?”

Daniel didn’t answer. “Don’t you remember what happened to them? Come on, look me in the eyes, Dan, don’t be pathetic.”

But Daniel pushed him away, trying to leave the room quickly after that, but Tommas harshly grabbed his arm and then threw him against the door, coming forward. “Don’t you fucking remember what happened to your friends? Weren’t you sitting by that table in the kitchen? Didn’t you run across the forest? Haven’t I run after you? They fucking set them on fire.”

Tommas’ face was red and raging, spit in the corners of his lips, something close to tears in his eyes, a lot of watery shade at least. He was the same height as Daniel, but he was much bigger, larger, and so it seemed he was hovering over him. 

“Ross and Charlie. They burned them, because they were fucking gay. That’s how fucking sick it is, and you want to be next? Is this how miserable you are? Fucking wake up, Daniel. So are we all. Dad is miserable, Steph is miserable, I am miserable. This is all fucking shit. If you want to die, have another rope. Go downstairs–” 

He hit him, and Daniel never hit him before. Tommas’ head yanked to the side, and he began to laugh, wiping his face soon after. “You are crazy. You are fucking nuts. I’m so sick of you. Always moping around. Always so smart. So hurt. You’re not the only person she left, do you understand?”

Tommas was screaming by then, but his voice was cracking, little by little, and it seemed as if he was about to burst into tears, cry a hundred of bottomless rivers and then drown in them.

“I think about her every day. I think about why she did what she did and what did we do not to see this coming. I think about you. I think about everything you could have achieved, but won’t, because of what you turned out to be. I think about us all and how fucking sorry I am for us.”

He was more collected by then, his head turning to the sides, but finally, he looked Dan back in his eyes. “This was one time thing, Daniel. You didn’t know what you were doing. You were high. He’s older. He lured you in. You didn’t want this. This wasn’t you.”

There was an unusual tremble in his voice. “And if I ever, ever, see you in a situation like this. I’ll come after him, whoever he is, and then I’ll come after you. I promise you. I’ll ruin that person, and I’ll ruin you. Because this is sick and wrong and you’re not like this.” 

And just as it seemed, that he was about to push Dan to the side and walk out, he hesitated, bared his teeth in an ugly, but a very sad smile, and said, “Don’t tell Lukas anything. I’ll tell him. I’ll make sure he stays away from you.” 

But before Daniel had a chance to jump at him, to scratch his eyes out, to drag his skin through the floor, to break every inch of his bones, to belittle him and reduce him to what he belittled and reduced him to, Tommas walked out.

And Dan was left alone, with tears in his eyes, trying to swallow what has already run down his face. He felt blood pounding in his veins, so fast and thick, he thought his temples were about to explode. There was so much fury in him, so much anger, and he didn’t know what else to do apart from destroying what stood in his way. And so, he smashed all the things that were sitting on their desks. He broke all the vases. He threw all of their clothing out. Each book he and Tommas owned found itself on the ground. He ripped pages out of notebooks, ripped Tommas’ photos and posters off the walls, threw CD’s against the ground, them stomped on them––whatever he touched, he destroyed.

Then, he was gone too. He run out of the house in a frenzy, didn’t bother to close the door. He ran alongside the street, moving further away from the village with each step. He ran like that, until he had to stop and vomit, and after that he broke in half, keeping his head between his knees, crying.

When he straightened his back, wiping the rest of puke from the corners of his lips, wiping the strands of tears from his eyes, he saw the vastness of greenery surrounding him. There was one, lone road in front of him, leading to a place he had little idea about, and nothing else, but waves of green. The only place he knew in this world, and one he was sure he would never be able to escape.

 

 

**#10 You**

 

 

 

There were crooks and bruises in his story; scars, scratches, and other symbols of long endured battle. There were things Daniel has done to himself, a kind of maltreatment that he diligently applied, and there were things done to him, wrenching things, but he carried them with utmost care and attachment, as you carry what becomes close to your heart. There were failures and setbacks on his route, and there were not enough of routes to choose from. There were things he pined for, things he cried about with mouth open and chest plummeting. There were promises that fell to bits, and words he couldn’t find himself accountable of. There were patterns, unfinished chess strategies, compositions of numbers, but as he searched through what was available to him, he faced a possibility that some questions couldn’t be answered.

What he knew instead was that he had to follow the boy, who was draining and loud. The boy, who had so much of fury in him that he sought to fight whatever came to stand in his way. The boy that smiled if it stirred your blood, if he could have you cut open exposed. He had to follow him, because there was warmth and softness in his crooks and bruises, because he had the gut to re-open scars that run thick and concise. Daniel saw failures in him, he measured the sizes of his setbacks, he counted the routes he had taken and was glad to become one of many. He was what Daniel pined for, what he could cry about, what moulded his chest, fought through his throat. He was the pattern, an unfinished contest, a collection of numbers, and doubts. Daniel followed him, because he was wrenching, and as with everything wrenching in his life, he carried it close to his heart.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience, for reading this, for everything. 
> 
>  
> 
> Now, we can finish this story.


End file.
